From the Library of Congress in Washington, DC Morton Gould: . . . stuff I brought you is more than you, you're gonna use, but I thought you were going to have, you know enough to choose from . . . Ellen Taaffe Zwilich: Oh, it's fantastic stuff; I'm just sorry you didn't bring that costume. MG: I couldn't get it; that was Steinway's, oh, [laughs] I told you I'd wear it. ETZ: His mother made him a costume when he was . . . MG: When I was a prodigy. ETZ: . . . when he was I think six years old, and it was a little satin blouse, with a ruffle, and little black satin pants with three little pearl buttons on each leg. Off-camera female voice: And you didn't wear it today? MG: Ah! It was, well, it was too warm. Uh, my peers might, I grew up in a very tough neighborhood . . . ETZ: Oh my god. MG: . . . this picture would be, I was in the papers in this, this Lord Fauntleroy suit. They would wait for me after class. They'd say, "Is that you?" I'd say, "Yes," and they'd beat the hell out of me. ETZ: Did you get to be a tough guy? Is that, uh, or did you? MG: I did in a way, I mean, if someone, if somebody for instance somebody, my family's very embarrassed. If I'm driving, and somebody thinks I'm not moving fast enough, when the light changes, I mean, I trigger on stupid things. I mean, on big issues I back off, but anything like that I'd really, I'm embarrassed, because this is not me. But what you do, for instance for any of us that've had that problem growing up, is you, you find out very quickly that if you, if you talk tough, they . . . back off. I've used it, I mean in New York, I travel subways a lot, and every now and then, you know, something so I can handle myself, and it's due to that, and I get into a taxi with a wise guy New York taxi driver . . . ETZ: [laughs] Uh, well, for the record, I'm Ellen Taaffe Zwilich, and I hold the first Carnegie Hall composer's chair. Today is November 10th, 1995, this is in a series of video archives with composers, and today in the archives of Carnegie Hall, I'm here with my dear friend and distinguished colleague, Morton Gould. Morton, thank you for being here with us today. And, I would like to start by focusing on the present, or the very recent present, where you had a great distinction in, just in, less than a year ago, where President Clinton awarded you a, the Medal of the Arts, and I brought some of the press here, the Washington Post, with Kirk Douglas and Aretha Franklin. Morton, with Pete Seeger here, and Hal Prince. MG: Yes, Hal Prince, yes. ETZ: And, I know how I felt when I saw you standing there with the President on television being honored; I felt great. I imagine you did too. MG: Well, yes, well you're talking about the Kennedy Center Honors. Yes that was something very special. And it was an amazing weekend, because you spent two days there. And it was something that I'll long remember. So, I was very fortunate to have been given that honor. ETZ: It's nice to receive all the accolades after you've done a very large body of work as you have. But something that really struck me when I went through the Carnegie Hall archives, I found your name starting back in the 1930s with major performances here at Carnegie. So let's back up and talk about how you get from little boy born in Queens, New York to Kennedy Center Honors, in 1994. Um, tell us a little bit about your background. MG: Well, my background is very simple, you know. Well, I was obviously born December 10, 1913. It was a long time ago, in a little town called Richmond Hill, on Long Island. It was a suburb of New York. Ah at that time, Long Island was basically agricultural with a lot of farming and a lot of estates, the Wintney Estates, the Vanderbilts, the Morgan estates, et cetera. So I grew up there and have spent my whole life there on the island, not in Richmond Hill anymore but in other areas, Kew Gardens, Forest Hill, et cetera...Great Neck. And I was a prodigy. Which meant that I suppose...was a premature music-maker, at an age when I didn't know what I was doing really. But, for some reason or other that was in my chemistry, This is one of those mysteries we don't know. My family was not a musical family as such. They liked it and so on, but I didn't come from a background of performers, of violinists or pianists, or composers. I did my first music�the first music I heard came from piano player rolls, from piano rolls. We, my parents had a player piano, or a piano player, I still don't know which goes, and that's what I heard. And whatever was on the rolls apparently, that's what I absorbed. ETZ: Was this popular music of the day? MG: All kinds. ETZ: Mm hmm. MG: All kinds, all kinds. All the chestnuts. For example, to this day I think I could probably sit down and play, on the piano, 'cause it's the piano version, of uh, Light Cavalry Overture, Poet and Peasant overture, I mean, all the overtures. Strauss waltzes, as well as popular, Chopin as an example. Rachmaninoff C-sharp Minor Prelude, Padarowski Minuet in G, and popular pieces. Poor Butterfly, whatever was popular. There might have even been some rags in there. But whatever was on those rolls I absorbed, and one day I sat down and started to play. I couldn't read or anything like that. But, as a mat...as I talk to you I realize, one of the things that has stuck with me, that was on the rolls is "The Rustle of Spring" by Christian Sinding. And I must confess that if some, every now and then people say to me, "What is, do you think, what is the greatest work ever written? I mean you know, what's your favorite?" [ETZ laughs] I, you know, my response, is, if you really dug deep enough, I could say, "You know, well, it could be the Bach B minor Mass," I mean, but really if you dug deep I would say it's "Rustle of Spring" by Christian Sinding. And, because I think to this day, that, to me, is the best piece ever done. ETZ: That's interesting. MG: Uh, but it's interesting how these things stick with you. So I grew up, you know, I was a prodigy. My parents got me a local teacher. And at the age of eight--- ETZ: ---Before you get to eight, I'm holding in my hand a work entitled "Just Six." MG: Oh yes. ETZ: "Valse Viennese," by one Morton Gould, aged six years, priced sixty cents. And I gather this would be a picture about that time, Morton, wouldn't it? MG: Yes, that's the prodigy. ETZ: The composer at work. I love it; it's really wonderful. It's interesting how similar this looks to some of your...with, to some of your later pictures. [laughs] MG: Oh, I was going to say, now wait a minute. I thought you were going to say that I still look that way. I hope not. ETZ: Except for the costume. [laughs] The way you're looking at the page, you know, and holding the...there's something you can see this is a composer. MG: But that's strange, that was, you know, I was six years old. It's called you know, "Just Six." It's a terrible piece by the way, but uh, anyway there it is. ETZ: Well I think you're entitled at six years old, right? Um, so then you were jumping ahead to a little bit later, when you probably went as I did, sort of shopping for better teachers. MG: I was going to skip through that, but you caught me. I forgot that you have a whole lot of ammunition there. ETZ: Oh, but it's so beautiful, Morton. You can't skip that. MG: I, at the age of eight I received a scholarship to the Institute of Musical Art, you know, Ellen, it never occurred to me until just a few moments ago, there is a very definite tie in to, to Carnegie Hall to there, in a very indirect way, in a convoluted matter. Now the dean of the Institute of Musical Art... ETZ: is what became Juilliard, right? MG: --it's before---that's right, it later became Juilliard. But at that time it was called the Institute of Musical Art. The dean who auditioned me and gave me the scholarship was Frank Damrosch, the brother of Walter Damrosch. Walter Damrosch was still alive at that time. ETZ: The conductor, yeah. MG: The conductor. And so here were two legendary figures from our musical past who had been at the opening of Carnegie Hall. They were kids. Their father was Leopold Damrosch, was the conductor. And Frank and Walter were there and they knew Tchaikovsky. Tchaikovsky was here for the opening of Carnegie Hall. They brought him over from Russia. By the way just a side line, he, he, in some of, in one of his letters, he was curious why they took the trouble to bring him all the way here, and all the rehearsal time was spent on the classical repertory. And they gave him no time to rehearse, I think Marche Slave, or whatever it was. Anyway, the point of what I'm saying now to tie it in is that I knew Frank and Walter Damrosch, I mean they were not close, very close friends of mine. But I knew them, and later on I realized hey, these people were here at the opening of Carnegie Hall and met Tchaikovsky. Were I older, I would have said, "What did Tchaikovsky say about his music?" or something like that. ETZ: Yeah, yeah. MG: It's funny how this century has seen people such as myself who have lived long enough to have rubbed shoulders with or known in one way or another people who go back into the previous century. ETZ: I know, and one of the wonderful things it seems to me, is that when you're eighty years old, let's say, and you're a composer. When you're with another composer, and whether that composer is fifteen or fifty, you feel like very close friends and there's no sort of generational gap. So, in a way, we have a wonderful sense of continuity with the past, with the people that we knew when we were young who knew the people from the previous century. Didn't I read that Frank Damrosch was also Liszt's grand...god-son? MG: He might have been. He might have been. That was, that was... ETZ: So it's all very . . . MG: �they came from that amazing period, from...he could have been. ETZ: So when did you go to the Institute of Musical Arts then? MG: I was eight years old. ETZ: Eight? MG: Yeah, I lasted there for about a year or a year and a half, something like that. There were problems, you know they had [MG laughs] never had an eight-year-old. [ETZ laughs] They were not set up for that. You know, you were supposed to be fourteen or fifteen. You were supposed to be in high school. ETZ: Mm hmm. MG: So I had problems there. I had a teacher who was a very good teacher, supposedly a Leschetizky pupil, and they ran a very tight ship. I remember to this day, you would stand outside when the pupil ahead of you was playing, and a bell rang, and the person playing stopped and picked up his or her music and walked out and then you went in. So it was a very strange time for me. And I think it was a strange time for them too. ETZ: This was, this was in the twenties. Was the schooling what you might think of as kind of academic German, or . . . MG: Yes, well, the piano. I was... ETZ: Oh, you studied piano there. MG: Yes, I was very anxious to study composition, but they wouldn't, they said "You're too young for that." As a matter of fact, I improvised... ETZ: Yeah. MG: I still do. I've always had the gift of improvising. I remember once she, she walked out of the room for a minute, and I was, so I was making something up. She came in and she said, "What are you doing?" I said, "I'm improvising." And she said if she ever heard me... ETZ:---do that again yes . . . MG: --if she ever heard me improvising again, she'd report me to, to Dean Damrosch, and he'd throw me out. She said, "Who are you to improvise? That's for, that's for great people, for Mozart, and for Beethoven. Not for you! I wanted to study composition, but they said no, not until I was older, thirteen of fourteen. But I must tell you, you see, let's just back up a second. When Damrosch auditioned me, when Frank Damrosch auditioned me, my local teacher that my parents had gotten for me when I was a prodigy, when I started to play at four, four-and-a-half, taught me not to read but to look at music when I played. So you see, when I played for people, I played all this repertory, I mean I played transcriptions of William Tell Overture, and the C-sharp minor Prelude, and people would turn. So when I auditioned for me, I had this little briefcase, I was told to always bring a briefcase. And he said, "Do you use music?" And I said, "yes," and he turned pages for me! And I played up a storm. And it occ...it didn't occur to him that I couldn't read. Not only couldn't I read . . . ETZ: So you were playing by ear, basically? MG: Yes! From memory. Not only couldn't I read---I couldn't read, and I couldn't count! [ETZ laughs] And um, I still remember my father trying to help me to count. He was a very conservative and a very disciplined kind of guy. And he was very impatient with me, because he would take an apple. I remember to this day. He would say, "Now this is a whole apple." I would say, "Yes." Then he'd cut it in half and he said, "What is this?" I said, "That's a half." Then he'd cut that in half. "Now what's this?" I'd say "a half." He said, "You are stupid!" My mother would say, "James, he's only eight years old!" He says "I don't care!" ETZ: He was also right! MG: Well, you see, uh, to this day, I don't know why if you cut anything in half, I know it's supposed to be a quarter, but I mean, it's still a half isn't it? I mean, I'm still looking for that answer. ETZ: You were doing mathematics, and he was doing arithmetic. MG: Right. Right. [ETZ laughs] ETZ: You finally...did you attend the Institute of Musical Art? Or did you go? MG: Yes, yes I went there. ETZ: I mean after this. MG: No, no, no. I left. I made that, the teacher thought that I, that there was something wrong with me, et cetera. She wanted my parents to to take me to the�to the, I remember, to the neurological institute. And I even remember there was a woman doctor there, a Dr. Tallman. It's funny how these things stick in your mind. Now at this point I'm about nine years old. I'm already getting to be a senior citizen. [ETZ laughs] And, but I was suicidal; I thought of destroying myself. And so my parents took me up there, and they advised my parents that they wanted, they would like to see the teacher. And she wouldn't go. She said there was nothing wrong with her, but there was something wrong with me. Anyway they were advised to�that they realized that we needed the scholarship, that my parents were poor. But they thought that if at all possible they should take me out of there. Because they said that they knew that I needed the lessons. But I think what was implied was that if I stayed there, I might have had the lessons, been able to play the piano, but not much else. ETZ: Mm hmm. MG: So they took me out. ETZ: Good. Then, what, just briefly, what later schooling you had? MG: Then after that I studied for a while with a wonderful teacher from Hungary, Joseph Kardosch. And I have wonderful memories of him, because we not only studied piano, but I was also interested in art and painting. I did a lot of that, and I was fairly gifted in that. There were periods where I thought maybe I wanted to be a rather be a painter than a musician. But anyway with him, not only did I study piano, the regular routine, the exercises, et cetera, studied the Bach Well-Tempered Clavichord, and the whole musical ritual. But, so we did a lot of four-hands, four-handed playing, playing the Beethoven Symphonies four-hands and all that. ETZ: Now would this have been the way you first heard the Beethoven Symphonies, at that time? MG: Yes, yes. I heard very little live music. ETZ: This is in the twenties. MG: Yes and the first symphony or orchestral concerts that I heard were in Carnegie Hall. ETZ: I was just going to ask you if you remember your first time. MG: I forget who, for some reason or other, I have the thing in my mind of Van Hoekstra, who I do know conducted the NY Philharmonic. Basically, I think he did the summer concerts at the stadium. For some reason or other, I seem to remember seeing---it's more than possible that he also did them at Carnegie Hall. But that was my first exposure to live music. Other than when I was six years old, my local teacher, who taught me how to look at music, would have a yearly recital, and he had me play four-hands with a little girl, and that of course, that was live. And we did the "Marriage of Figaro" overture, and I, they had to come out and finally stop me and explain to me that I am not supposed to finish before she did! [ETZ laughs] I mean, I assumed it was a race, that if you're playing with a girl, then you beat her. [ETZ laughs] So I was finished, well ahead of her, and had a difficult time holding back so we finished together. I didn't realize that was the objective. ETZ: Morton, jumping ahead, in�we have a program here from 1938, where Max Pollikoff did your Violin Concerto. You wrote this for him, didn't you? MG: Yes, did he do it here? ETZ: It was here, yes. MG: It's funny, I remember that he did it, but I didn't know that it was here. Yeah. ETZ: It's quite an interesting program too. One of the things that interests me is how programs have changed over the years. And here he does the Bach Partita. MG: Oh yes. ETZ: But it doesn't identify which one. The Mozart Symphony Concertante, with Louis Kievman? MG: Oh yes, God that's a name I haven't heard in years. ETZ: And then your Violin Concerto, and then a bunch of small pieces, including a piece of Max Pollikoff's. And it says "Yascha Zadey at the Steinway," so I assume this was a recital with piano. MG: With piano yes, there was no orchestra, and I never orchestrated it. I don't remember the work at all, one of these days I'm going to have to try to find it. I'd be curious to see what it was like. ETZ: You really have no recollection? MG: I have no recollection. I mean, I know that he did it, I mean in my mind I know that he did it, and that I wrote the piece, and I know that he did it-- ETZ: Well, it's here in brown and yellow [ETZ laughs] MG: Well, you know Ellen, I'm finding out a lot about myself here just sitting here. Look at this, Leon Barzin, and the American Orchestra. ETZ: Leon Barzin, yeah. The ads are very interesting, you know, they really are. I notice later on in the programs, they begin to say "Morton Gould plays only the Steinway." You begin to be a figure that is advertised as well as performed, which is very interesting. The next thing we have is with Barbarolli in 1941. He did Foster Gallery. I'm having a hard time finding out if he did any other American composers. I'm not sure he did. MG: He did very little as I recall. Shall I stand? ETZ: No, I'll just bring it over. MG: You know, I don't even think I have this program. ETZ: This is with Beveridge Webster playing what? MG: What was he playing, Beveridge Webster? ETZ: It's hard to figure out. MG: Yeah, what, I don't understand... ETZ: Because it says "Beethoven Symphony in A minor, Number Seven," then it says "Beveridge Webster pianist." MG: What did he play? ETZ: And I don't see a�oh here...Schumann Piano Concerto. MG: Oh! God, gee, that's a long program recital. Is this all one program? ETZ: Yes. MG: And look there's a familiar name that we haven't heard from, Montemezzi...is that it? ETZ: Yeah, Montemezzi. The first American performance, conducted by the composer. MG: And you know what's interesting here is, is this the end of the program? They finished with my "Stephen Foster Gallery," and that has thirteen movements to it, but they're not listed. ETZ: Wow. MG: So the audience would have no idea of knowing what was happening or when it was finished and it was a long, involved work. ETZ: This kind of a program is something that we certainly don't see much anymore, where you have a Beethoven Symphony--- MG: ---This is a long program, sure! ETZ: A Schumann Piano Concerto . . . MG: My "Foster Gallery," he did the whole thing. That plays around thirty-two minutes. ETZ: Really. MG: So this must have been a three-hour program, at least that's what it looks like. ETZ: That's certainly ah, goodness, a way in which concert life has changed. Programs have gotten much more focused and shorter. I suppose, with just the modern world. What was Barbarelli like? MG: You know, I didn't really know him, I mean I just, I met him. A lot of these conductors in those years, I mean, they'd play my music, uh, I really had no personal communication with them. It's a different time and place. I was very young, and uh, it was in Carnegie Hall I remember hearing it might have been one of these works, perhaps the "Foster Gallery" that a conductor played in the late thirties. And um, my being given a ticket uh to sit in the audience and sitting next to an elderly couple. Of course you realize I was at an age where anyone could be elderly [ETZ: "That's rigt"] I was in my twenties, early twenties, and uh, they didn't know who I was. And they seemed benign enough. But in the middle of my piece this woman turned to me and said, "Now, why do they write that kind of music?" And for years I would never sit in the audience, you know, because I wasn't taking any chances. And that happened in Carnegie Hall. But I didn't really get to know Barbarolli[sic] and as we know that was very unfortunate. His situation, he was a very gifted person, subsequently became a much-admired and recognized conductor. But here he had a rough time, where a lot of performers have, in this city called "New York." You can be, you know, admired, and you can be admired, and you can be destroyed [laughs] within a very short period of time. And he finally went back to Europe and made the famous remark. They said, isn't it dangerous to go back. We're getting into World War II, and there were submarines. They were torpedoing boats, and they said, "Aren't' you afraid of the German Submarines?" And he said, "Not after the New York critics!" And he was, certainly he was very good to me. I was a relatively unknown figure, person at that time. And now I got to know people like Stokowski. I got, you know, I got to be familiar with him. Ah, Mitropoulos of course, subsequently. ETZ: Not too much later you got started with Mitropoulos. What did you feel, as a twenty-something uh, young person in New York in those days? What did you feel your hopes and chances for the future as a composer were? Did you, were you optimistic, or . . . ? MG: Ellen, you know, really, you know I never thought of it. I did, I composed, I did what I did because it was something I knew how to do, and obviously it's a natural kind of thing, that boils up. But also because I was�during my teens, I had to go out and support my family. So that changes a lot of the things and a lot of one's perceptions and a lot of the way one thinks. I was busy surviving, really. And helping my family survive. You know what I'm talking about, at present. We were talking before about how I studied piano with Joseph Kardosch. May I follow through with that? I'll just go on . . . ETZ: Sure. MG: Now, after that, I left him to study with Abby Whiteside, who for many, many years taught me, and also I used to use her as a coach. And I met her through Dr. Vincent Jones who taught composition at NYU. Now, I never went to college, and as a matter of fact, I didn't graduate high school. I left when I had one term to go, because there was a lot of financial pressure at home. But I was, I studied theory and composition with Dr. Jones privately, and he would let me sit in at his classes also, so a lot of people thought that I was a student there. And that I was a very young college student, which I wasn't. And he knew Abby Whiteside and felt that she would be a good person for me at that time, at that age, you know now I'm about twelve or thirteen. And I got to know Abby Whiteside, and really she became almost like, at times, a surrogate mother. Although I had a mother, we had no problems. I had a very supportive family. But they were very respectful of her, and she was a very dominating kind of person. And she was very much a part of my musical training, certainly as a pianist. And that is the long and short of my actual academic� MG: �to really keep that. ETZ: Now that's Mitropoulos, isn't it? MG: No, that's de Sabato . . . Yes, that's de Sabato. What was it, Victor, wasn't it? He was one of the legendary conductors, like you know like, along with Toscanini. And and after the war they brought him over here, and he picked as the American work my Spirituals for Orchestra. ETZ: This is the, this is about the era you're talking about? MG: Now, I'm talking about thirteen or fourteen, yes. ETZ: It's a nice face, isn't it. MG: Well, there it is. Yeah. ETZ: Morton, so then during the Depression, how did you make a living? MG: Well, what happened then was, at the age of fifteen that I went to Woodstock for a summer. It was an artists' colony. It still is, yeah. But this is during Prohibition. I went there because I was interested in painting as I said before, and there were a lot of prominent artists up there whom I thought I would get to meet, and be able to discuss art with, and so on. I had some older friends, one was a sculptor, and one was a painter, who ultimately became a photographer. They went up there, and they were friends of the family; our families had sort of grown up together. And they invited me to come up for a few days. They were interested in my artwork and they had also said to me when I was about twelve or thirteen. They were looking at my paintings, and said, "Here you are," they said, "you're thirteen years old, and you're an artist, or you want to be an artist, and you're still living with your bourgeois parents." You see the word "bourgeois" was very often used there. I'm talking about a period where we have what we call a Bohemian period. You know, a lot of young people took off and, this was during the Depression, would go to California and would ride the rails. I mean, they'd ride freight cars and so on, you know, hanging underneath. It was a different time. We were all going through a whole lot, and it was a different time, from many points of view. Anyway, they went to Woodstock, and they invited me to come up for two days or three days, and I went up there and decided that I'm gonna stay. So I taught; I got some pupils to teach piano to, and I gave concerts of modern music, and I made my own posters. I have them at home somewhere. We'd tack them up on the road to Kingston and so on. And what's interesting is there it is Morton Gould concert, and there were two theaters there. One was the Maverick and the other was the Playhouse, and my friends I used as sort of bodyguards to keep people out who didn't pay for tickets, which was pointless you know, because everybody got in one way or another. ETZ: One way or another, yes. MG: This is out in the open. And when I�but I would do a program that says, "Schoenberg, Bartok, Hindemith, Gould." I mean, my name was there in those big letters with everybody else. Nobody knew who I was, but there it was. This shows you the kind of ego that we have [ETZ laughs]. And that was sort of an interesting experience. One of the things I found out quickly was that the real artists did not talk about art. You couldn't go into their studios. They were up about six, seven every morning and painting. They weren't discussing it; they were doing it. I mention that, because that's a very important thing we must learn as we grow up. Certainly in the arts, that the theory and the philosophizing, and so on, that's "how many angels can dance on the point of a needle." I mean, that's, you don't use up time on it. The people I was with were nice enough, but they were parasites. I mean, they were always trying to find places they could go for parties, and get free liquor. But we had, we drank Apple Jack. Just think, fifteen years old. I mean, I would never let one of my kids go up to a place like that if they were fifty years old! But there I was. When I came back from that, from Woodstock, I really could not fit into going back to high school anymore; I had one chance to go. And this was a completely different life, I mean. And at that point I had already fallen in love with a beautiful girl who was a year younger than me, who eventually became my first wife. And, I was�and also the tremendous family pressure, my father was sick, and we were a fairly large family. And I was the only one who had the capacity to go out and make enough money to feed us all. So I started to do things; I started to play for dancing studios, you know, to accompany the dancing. And then I started to play Vaudeville, the tail end of Vaudeville. ETZ: This is in the late twenties now? MG: No, now we're talking, we're getting into the thirties now. ETZ: Into the thirties. MG: Yeah. We're into the thirties. Now, I might be skipping other certain things that might have happened. It's impossible to remember everything. But, ah in 1932, Radio City Music Hall opened. That was the opening of Radio City Music Hall, which at that time was a fabulous theater...still is, by the way. ETZ: Yes, it's a beautiful place MG: �with a stage that received worldwide attention, because of all the facilities that it has, and I was on the staff. I got a job. Arnold Rapp� was the musical director, and he gave me the job, which I needed desperately. I was doing odd jobs, but that was tough. I had three brothers, a mother and a father, and an aunt and a grandma, grandmother, who was alive at this time. ETZ: Did they use you as a conductor at this time, or just as a pianist? MG: No, no, as a pianist. I played the piano. I was a part of the orchestra, but I also played solos. I played celesta in the orchestra. They had a hundred-piece symphony orchestra in the pit. ETZ: Yes, when I first came to New York, I worked there one summer MG: Did you? ETZ: Yeah, sure. And we played, you know . . . MG: Who was it? Was it Raymond Page when you came in? ETZ: I think it was after that. MG: Oh, after that---they had a number. Well, in those days, you see, we played, I played celesta, piano, and the Beckstein electric piano. The first amplified piano. It never occurred to me until recently that there is all this recognition of amplified instruments, and here it was. And I remember vividly, because that worked with tubes which were always blowing out. And the tubes had to be imported from Austria somewhere. And I was always being fired, because in the middle of a solo, I'd be doing on the electric piano, like I remember doing the Flight of the Bumblebee---and it went---dauh dauh da---suddenly the whole thing disappears [hisses]. And the conductor holding up two fingers, which meant "two weeks' notice." We were always on two weeks' notice by the way, and as the pianist, I had to rehearse... ETZ: ...for the dancers? MG: What is it? ETZ: Did you have to rehearse the dancers alone? MG: Yes, and the operas, we did the digest, the short version of Carmen, of Traviata, with soloists. I had to rehearse them all: the ballet, the Roxy-ettes...the Rockettes. Every now and then on a show I would start with the orchestra. The pit would come up and play whatever the overture was that had a celeste part, and were lowered, and I'd jump off and get in a Hungarian Hussar uniform, and get onto the revolving stage playing the Liszt Second Hungarian Rhapsody. Or during George Washington Week, celebrating George. They had a whole thing about George Washington to celebrate his birthday. I'd appear in a Colonial costume in a wig, you know, and long white socks, and shoes with buckles, which kept falling off. I was always being reprimanded after the show. "Watch the buckles, they made a noise. And put them on so they don't fall off. And your wig was askew." I had some amazing experiences there. They're very funny now, but they weren't there, because I worked seven days a week. And I was also part of a two-piano team. Gould and Schefter. Frank Schefter's older than me, and he's still alive by the way. He lives out in California. And we used to play a Vaudeville for...they had ballroom teams, like Bellows and Yolanda, and the DeMarcos. There would always be a very handsome guy and a beautiful woman. And they always had a two-piano team, with two grand pianos. I have no idea why, but there it was. And we did that, we played there, we had some amazing experiences. We played Vaudeville, you'd sometimes play a good house. But sometimes we played old Burlesque houses. It was, there were some funny things that happened, but they weren't funny when they happened. Anyway, I finally left the Radio City Music Hall, because the routine was terrible. ETZ: Four shows a day? MG: Yeah, well, there were four or five shows a day. It originally started at two shows a day; there were no movies. ETZ: Oh, really? MG: It was in the European Vaudeville tradition. Now I want to tell you something. In those shows, there was Martha Graham with Louis Horst, who was her accompanist and conducted from the pit, the score, Harold Kreuzberg, a famous dancer from Germany, with a new score. A lot of legendary people went through there, were up on that stage, that were already legends. De Wolfe Hopper, doing his last recitation of the famous poem "Casey at the Bat," which he wrote. So a lot of those things happened and I was there. ETZ: You know what's interesting to me about that whole era, and I think it went on really into the fifties, that there were these pockets, including on commercial television when it got started, where you had the vernacular and the so-called High Art side by side. You could have a Beethoven symphony followed by a juggler� MG: That's right ETZ: �that the sense of the classic sort of being incorporated into real life. I think that's something that we have somehow rather lost sight of, and I don't think it's to our credit. It's very strange. But, but this whole apprenticeship that you're describing is very interesting. I was thinking when you were talking about the Institute of Musical Arts situation, aren't you lucky that they didn't take you as a composition student. They probably would have put you in a straight jacket, and made you feel this is not what you wanted to do. MG: That's an interesting observation; you're probably right, because in those days they were very strict. I do know that their composition courses were very rigid. For instance, names like Goetschius come up . . .right? ETZ: Mm hmm, Percy Goetschius. MG: The�and very, later on. May I backtrack for a moment, because I just thought of something while we were talking about the Institute? ETZ: Sure. MG: When I must have been now, about, I'm going back to when I'm about twelve or thirteen, some friends of my family thought that I really ought to try to go and study with Rubin Goldmark, who was teaching at the Institute. At that time, it might have been the Juilliard already. So they made an appointment for me, and I went up to see him, and he was a nice man. By the way, he taught Aaron Copland. ETZ: Yes, I know. I thought about that. MG: Now, I already at this age I was a little belligerent, you know, twelve, thirteen, fourteen. I told you about Woodstock and the posters, and I had really no use for anything except the most modern, you know, the most way-out-kind of things, which is very typical, you know, very intolerant of anything short of that. And uh, so that I went up to see Rubin Goldmark, and he was very polite. He said, "I understand you're a pianist, as well a composer." He said, "You want to play me something?" I played a Chopin Nocturne, I forget what, and he said, "Now let me hear something of yours, of your music." And he was already deaf, he was, and he had a horn, a hearing horn. This is before they had hearing aids that you don't see. So he put, he leaned over to the piano to listen. And at that time I also wrote a lot of wild music including tone clusters, and right off the bat, I hit this big cluster, and of course I almost knocked him out of his chair. I mean, if he wasn't deaf at that point, that did it. And I played all the, you know, I played up a storm. I was a very good pianist, and I was racing up the�and he finally tapped me and said, "my dear young man, I think you're gi...you're probably very gifted." I forget his exact words, but he says "I'm an old man; you're a young man. I'm happy the way I am; you're happy the way you are. Why don't we leave it at that?" And you see, he was very understanding. ETZ: That's very nice actually. MG: And he suggested, and he knew, I don't think I would have gotten along with him. I probably was too restless, and... ETZ: And also he came out of a tradition where, and they were continuing until almost recently... MG: That's right ETZ: ...to teach in the style of Brahms basically, so it would have been a very difficult fit. But that's nice that he� MG: He was very understanding, and he said that, let's remain friends. ETZ: That's really very lovely; it really is. Well, now, let's race ahead. What I was thinking when you were talking about the Music Hall and all of that is how we put ourselves together in a unique way, as contemporary composers. There isn't like one track we follow, and it's so interesting to see what it is that each of us uses. I find that nothing ever gets thrown away. All of the parts of your life come together in your music. This is pretty heavy duty stuff though. I see here, 1952, 1953, 1955, 1957, ah, Mitropoulos really, really championed your work. And in fact, I'm reading the Trotter book. MG: Oh yes. The Priests of Music. It's a fascinating book. ETZ: It certainly is. MG: That whole period, not only with Mitropoulos. ETZ: It's an era that I'm not familiar with, you know, it's quite a story. But with all of the American composers that Mitropoulos, well not only American---the Viennese, with Schoenberg, Berg. With all the composers that he championed, he was on record as saying he would do a piece by Morton Gould sight unseen which is very high compliment I would say. Tell us a little bit about your impression of Mitropoulos. MG: Well...can I just? ETZ: Morton, you can do anything you want! This is the first time I've ever known you to ask me permission for anything! MG: No, no, because Mitropoulos was a very important part of my career, certainly, and my life. But, I just want to just comment on that after this period of doing Vaudeville and so on, I landed in radio. Oh, I left Radio City Music Hall, and then was on the staff of NBC for a few years as pianist, staff pianist, and was part of a two-piano team. Then I had the urge to conduct, and then I started a series of radio programs, conducting and arranging, on WOR, Mutual Network, and was there for a number of years and made a radio name for myself as a conductor and as a pianist and as an arranger and as a composer, and composed a lot of relatively short pieces for radio. In those days they had what we called sustaining programs, programs that were not sponsored, did not have commercial sponsorship. And I was, I sustained for a long time and then started to get commercial programs. I did a commercial program twice, for instance, for Chrysler. But then I did a program called "Shenley Cresta Blanca" program. And the Cresta Blanca is a wine. Shenley was a liquor company. You could never advertise liquor on the air. I don't think you still can, but you can advertise wine. So, it was Shenley's Cresta Blanca program with Morton Gould and his orchestra, I mean it's not my orchestra. It was an orchestra put together. And that became a very popular program with soloists from classical to pop. I mean, Lauritz Melchior, Robert Merrill, there's a whole list, all the great artists who were alive at that time were on the program. Duke Ellington, Benny Goodman, Mary Martin, W.C. Handy doing his last appearance really on that program, and sang a few words, playing his St. Louis blues, and then my doing a big symphonic arrangement of it. See, I used to arrange all these things for large orchestra as well as write things. Now subsequently, from that radio, from those radio programs, some of the music I wrote ended up in the repertory to this day, as an example, my "American Salute." One of the programs I did getting into the WWII was called "Keep 'em rollin'" ---the official government program to try to rev up our industry. And I wrote all the necessary music, et cetera; I won't go into all the details. But I was a very busy guy, at the same time composing works that were starting to be played by Fritz Reiner, as an example, in the thirties, when he was still with Pittsburgh. Reiner was also�became a very close friend of mine; we had a long wonderful friendship, personally as well as professionally with him. I say all this because in the tumultuous times that I was living through at that time, doing all these things, running all these different tracks, and the things that were happening around me in our society, a lot of music came out that has spilled into the concert field. "American Salute," for instance, the setting with "Johnny Comes Marching Home" . . . ETZ: Which I played with the American Symphony, here in Carnegie Hall in I think 1968. MG: So you see, it's funny how all these things, you know we're all tied together on this. Yeah. ETZ: I'd love to show this picture. This is with the WOR microphone, and it would come as a shock to people who have come of age very lately to realize that the radio stations had vast musical institutions. I think for instance, WOR had a string quartet; they had Harvey Shapiro, I mean really! The finest musicians, the NBC Symphony was in the radio station, NBC. CBS had an orchestra, ABC, that there was a very, very active musical life that ran the gamut of all kinds of music. And it seems to me here again, it's quite interesting that this is something more or less that has disappeared from the scene. The�I know my�I think I told you this once, that my trumpet teacher in high school, his ideal performer was the studio musician, the one that could stand up and play the violin concerto, and then sit and play the fiddle parts in a Duke Ellington arrangement. It's quite extraordinary. So it would be a shock, I think, for someone who grew up in the eighties and nineties to realize that you were making a life as a musician in a brand new medium, where it's now sort of vanished as a possibility. MG: That's right. Radio was full of music . . . of all kinds. And I was part of it; I was part of that scene. And I wrote a tremendous number of things, of all kinds...shorter pieces, longer pieces. For instance, I wrote a work of mine that's become sort of a standard over the years. It's now, they now use it as a piano teaching piece, and it's been arranged and rearranged. It's something called "Pavanne." It's the second movement of a little symphoniette, an American Symphoniette, which took off and became a popular piece. My "American Salute" that I mentioned before. I wrote for Jose Iturbi who was one of the soloists, one of the famous artists of that time, for my Cresta Blanca program, he had done the Gershwin Piano Concerto with me and the Rhapsody in Blue, and so on. He got me to write him two works. One was a boogie-woogie etude, which has suddenly come back . . . ETZ: I think we have someone playing that in the nineties here, yeah Cherkassky. MG: Sure, Cherkassky, right. And then I wrote for him a little concerto. I called it at that time American Concertette for piano and orchestra, which was a horrible title, like a dinette. You know they had dinettes and roomettes. I called it Concertette instead of Concertino. Anyway, I wrote this for him, we did it on the air. A young man came to see me, wanted to see me. He was a dancer with the American Ballet, and his name was Jerome Robbins. At the time it meant nothing to me. He heard the work and he said to me that he wanted to do a ballet to it, but at the moment he had, he had ideas for another kind of ballet, which I couldn't do with him, because I was, he wanted me to do it on spec, you see, and it was about sailors [ETZ laughs] And I gave him, and he said, do I know anybody else, any other composer who was around who wrote something that uses the jazz elements . . . ETZ: Is this going to be "Fancy Free?" MG: Yep, yeah, and I gave him a list of names, including Lenny's, who had just come into town. And I didn't know Lenny, uh, Leonard Bernstein too well. But, now, Jerry didn't do it, because I told him that, but it's interesting that Lenny was one of the names that I gave him, I gave him a number of others. Alex North was amongst them, who was here...this is before Alex went out to . . . ETZ: Before he went out to Hollywood? MG: I think I gave him Henry Brandt's name. A number of my colleagues, whom I liked and admired and so on. So the next thing I know I was seeing what turned out to be a landmark ballet. In any case, Jerry took this work, and he called it "Interplay" and "Interplay" is in the repertory to this day. The New York City Ballet does it every year, et cetera. So, now "Interplay" is something that I wrote for radio, and this has become sort of a standard work. My Latin American Symphonette, which has had numerous performances and recordings over the years was written and was first broadcast, the first broadcast in South America that the Mutual Network did...that was part of the celebration. So there were a lot of things that have shaped me, what you were talking about before...everything shapes us. Not only the things that we don't do, or should have done, but the things that we did do that we shouldn't have done either, however it goes. And now as I explain, what's interesting is, I got an image of being commercial. And in those days, it was not a good image, I mean not for somebody who wanted to be so-called serious and so on. So I've been pretty much, I realize now, I've been pretty much of a maverick. I was never part of any group or of any clique or anything like that. I was too busy to be that; I mean I was busy earning a living. Looking back, sometimes I think I should have taught. Because that would have been one way of surviving economically. Also it might have been more fruitful, but on the other hand, everything else would have change. And I don't believe in going back. I mean, we are what we are because we are what we are. ETZ: Well, isn't it nice also to have written music that has outgrown its purpose. I mean, this is historically what has happened with the masterpieces of the past, maybe designed for some particular occasion, and they . . . MG: I know, but Ellen we were going through a time where don't forget as an example, I remember when all my coll... my friends were all intellectuals, many of them brilliant, but purists. I mean, one of my close friends was somebody, a brilliant guy...he could not abide the ending of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. Why? He says because he says, "he signals for applause." And for awhile I bought that, and then after a while I though, well, what's wrong with that? You know? It was a very, very... ETZ: Ok, Morton you mentioned a number of people: Henry Brandt, Alex North, I'm sure this must have been a very interesting time in the forties and I guess sort of into the fifties. MG: Oh yes, true. ETZ: What was life like for all of these young composers at the time? MG: Very difficult, very difficult. A lot of them were literally starving. I mean, there was no way of...this was long before "Meet the Composer" programs. Long before any kind of funding for the arts in any sense or any way. You know, you had to find something else to do in order to compose. ETZ: Well, Alex North, for instance, went to Hollywood. MG: Well, he eventually went to Hollywood. ETZ: Henry is� MG: �still alive ETZ: �still alive and kicking. He's living in California now. I don't know when he moved there, but�was there I mean I guess somebody like Mitropoulos offered young composers at least a hope that they could get a hearing. At a major venue at Carnegie Hall with the New York Philharmonic. MG: I've been very fortunate that I, for instance, Stokowski started to do my music, early on. Rodzinski did it. ETZ: What was that like? Did he? I'm gonna ask you, I asked David Diamond the same question, but did he really come to rehearsals with a gun? MG: He [laughs] I don't, I mean, I never saw it; I know there was that story around. But I do know, and we were friendly, and I knew his wife, Helena, and of course his son now, wonderful guy, Richard is his name, who's associated with the Van Cliburn Foundation. He had hangups, you know. I've heard the thing about the gun. What I remember about him is that he would be...that they had a...this is during the second world war. He did a philharmonic concert on a boat that was not really a boat. It was anchored on the Hudson River. ETZ: Like a barge or something? MG: It simulated, yeah, it simulated a boat, yeah. And I walked with Artur and his wife up this plank, and this was evening, to go into the barge itself where there was sort of like an auditorium. And, "Oh," he said, "I'm getting seasick." And his wife said, "Artur, you're not on a boat, there's no rocking, nothing is happening." He says, "Alright." ETZ: That doesn't sound like a man with a gun! MG: But you know, he was very good to me. As a matter of fact, he recorded my "Spiritual for Orchestra" with the Philharmonic. It was the first recording of it. And, now Mitropoulos was a very special, not only a very special musician but a very special human being. And he really, when you look at his programs, and as close as I was to him I didn't realize the depth of his involvement musically. And also the depth of his involvement personally with the people around him, et cetera. I knew a great deal about him and about the people around him because I knew almost all of them, and we used to have...he always had his main meal at lunch--which is very typical European--at a famous Italian restaurant, called La Scala, which was right near Carnegie Hall. And we would have wonderful conversations, oddly enough, not so much about music but about worldly events. He was very involved and very concerned about what was going on, what was happening. And I saw him do amazing things for his colleagues. I mean, or people even out of music...he would support them financially---I think when he died he was penniless. I don't think he had anything left. And he and I had different lifestyles. It was time when you didn't talk about a lot of things openly, about whether one was homosexual or what, or so on. We had some very interesting conversations. We both respected each other. I respected and admired him, and he respected and admired me. And I had a very warm love for this man, as a human being, because I saw what he, how he helped people. ETZ: Yeah. David Diamond was telling us how very, very helpful he was. And in this book, you probably discovered many things that just had come to light. How many people he helped, and he gave money... MG: I knew some of it; I didn't know all of it. By the way, I remember hearing a piece of David Diamond's. And now I'm going back to the late thirties, when we had what we called WPA orchestras. This is because of the Depression and so on. So, and a lot of young composers got their first hearings with these WPA orchestras. ETZ: Were they set up for the young composers, as the arts program was? MG: Some of them was, some of them was. Some of them were. ETZ: That was the avenue�did the composers make any money? Or ... MG: I don't think, you don't get paid, we didn't make money. There again, as an example, ASCAP, the American Society of Composers, Artists[sic], and Publishers, which is a copyright organization, at that time wasn't collecting from concerts, and this was before BMI was formed, the other big performing rights organization. I remember a manager of a major orchestra saying to my publisher at that time, because they asked for twenty-five dollars for a performance of my piece. They said, "For twenty-five dollars we can do a good European composer!" Ah, so there again, it was a different time and a worse time, really. Sometimes nostalgia thinks, no, yeah, they were the good old days, but those were really the good old days in the sense that there was a lot of fermentation. And I started to say before, for instance, WPA, I heard works of colleagues of mine. For instance I remember hearing a work, some of David Diamond's works, and being tremendously moved; I was tremendously impressed by it. And there were people like Elie Siegmeister around, there were probably you know, not mentioning people whom I should, because I can't think of all the names at hand. And then there were conductors such as Stokowski, Rainer, and Rodzinski, and so on, doing some contemporary works. Basically--you made a remark before that European conductors tended not to do, and including even American conductors, even a few that might have been born here, everyone was trying to show that they could do the Beethoven Fifth better than the person before them, or after them. So that, now, but Mitropoulos was the catalyst for many things. He had a quota for Mahler. He was allowed, I think one Mahler Symphony a year. You know? ETZ: It's interesting how these things change, for instance last season there was a wonderful benefit featuring the Mahler Symphony of a Thousand. So that's how you can sell your highest-priced tickets in 1994, fifty years later. MG: Mahler has become almost a pop figure...a pop icon almost. ETZ: But at the time it was very much, Mitropoulos did it because he believed in it. MG: Yes, and he did, also, I didn't realize reading this wonderful book about him, that as a pianist, I remember hearing him doing the Prokofiev concerto. You know, playing it, conducting it, which he did a wonderful performance of. But he did things, for instance, he did works like piano concerti by Malpiero...by names that were distinguished names at the time, but have not necessarily survived in the repertoire. But here he did all these works, and some of them were very far out pieces, he did them from memory and conducted from the piano. Along with all the other things that he conducted all from memory. He was an amazing figure, but also combined with being an amazing human being. And I think any one of us who ever had contact with him retained that part... ETZ: I'm sorry I didn't know him. MG: Yes, you would have loved him. Terrific guy. ETZ: Because there, he seems like a human being that you would just love to know. Here's a program. I think this was your first Carnegie Hall performance with Mitropoulos. The New York Philharmonic. Oscar Levant was the piano soloist. That's quite an interesting ad to the left there. MG: Now when did the... ETZ: This is nineteen-fifty...one, I guess, no '52...the 51-52 season. And Levant played the Rubinstein Concerto for Piano. Now here look, they're advertising a guide to Alban Berg's opera, Wozzeck. MG: Here's an ad for Oscar Levant doing Variations and here, the Gershwin Second Rhapsody which had never been recorded. Look! Morton Gould and orchestra on Columbia Records with Oscar Levant. ETZ: Ah so, that's right. So you were already then, I guess you got started conducting, just because you were on the staff of WOR? MG: Oh, and here he does the Fall River... ETZ: Yes, he does the "Fall River Legend." MG: I'm sorry, you asked me...? ETZ: Well, I was just saying that it seemed to me, what you were saying before is that you got started conducting in the studio. Somebody had to do it, I guess. But by this time, you were already recording as a conductor. MG: Yes, yeah. ETZ: When did you get really interested in conducting? [aside: These are sort of heavy] MG: I was always sort of intrigued by it. I would say about fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. There's an interesting sidelight to this, to my conducting career. I told you I got to know Reiner, Fritz Reiner. I went to see him to see if I could study conducting with him. At that time he was teaching at the Curtis. There was a period where I think Lukas Foss was there; I think Lenny was there, or came there. And I remember his saying to me, this was before I got to know him too well, and, I think, before he had done any works of mine, so this might go...this goes way back. I might have been sixteen, seventeen, I just forget, but it's in that, those, that fuzzy time in my memory. And I remember his greeting me at the door of the apartment, and he was sort of clicking his teeth...he was just finishing breakfast or something like that. And he said, "come in." And he was, he could be this very tough kind of guy. ETZ: I gather. MG: This was before I got to know him; we became very good friends. But at this time I was sort of terrified of him. And he said, "You're a pianist?" I said, "Yeah," and he says, "Play. Play anything. Just don't waste time; sit down and play." So I played. At that time I was a pianist, I played some Chopin. Every time I stopped, he says, he walked around, he picked his teeth, he was opening mail, he went into the bathroom. Every time I'd slow down, he'd say "Keep on going." And then finally he came around and he says, "Now why do you think you can conduct?" Now I thought I was ready for this, I had gone, there was a famous music public library on, I think on Fifty-eighth Street near Park Avenue, somewhere. It was famous. ETZ: The Donnell? Was it the Donnell, or was that later? MG: I don't know whether it was that or not, but this is, you know, way before what we have now. And that was where you saw all the scores; I used to see all my colleagues there; we would meet there very often. I used to take scores out to study, and I took a book of conducting out to study. And I got scores out to play, you know to play them on the piano. So I said to him, something to the effect of "I can beat five." And he says to me, "A pig can beat five." [ETZ laughs] He said "We'll see whether you're a conductor or not." And he stuck up a score, a huge score of Elektra. ETZ: Oh my god, with three violin sections, and yeah. MG: He said, "Play." And I said, now, so I started to play, and he said, "No, you must play what the, also, don't you see those, there's singing there too." I said, "Well, I don't sing," and he says, "No, I don't want you to sing. Give me an idea of what you think is going on." He says, "I know you can. Don't waste any more time, just go on." So I'd play, and he turned pages for me, and I staggered through this, and then he gave me something else, another complicated thing. And every time I'd get going, and he gave me some of these scores you see, have trans...cause you see they're all written in transposition. But many of them, the older works, such as Elektra, as I remember, have where the horns change. They're playing in F, and suddenly they can be in E-flat. You know what I mean? They don't, because they had crooks, and so on. So he finally--and every time I got going, he would flip a batch of pages, and I would [gestures imitating jumping] you know, he says, "What are you waiting for? Play!" But you want to see what the lineup is, cause . . . ETZ: And also, it's in French score, which means that you don't see the exact same instrumentation on each page; you just see what's playing on that page. It's...that's a trial by fire. MG: So, so finally, now he ends up with the Brahms Haydn Variations, the theme, you know, bah da da bum bum. That I know, I mean that I knew. At this point I was paralyzed. I couldn't see, I couldn't play one note. "Alright now," he says, "what we just did? That is conducting." He says, "How you beat . . ." he says, "I can, you know, an animal can be taught that." He said, "If you study with me, you'll be able to sightread a score, and know exactly what's going on," he said, "That's what conducting is." And he made, he did get the Curtis, I, they have in their archives, in the Reiner Archives, a letter that I wrote, thanking him for recommending me. Apparently I got a letter from the Curtis, for me to apply or something like that. But I couldn't do it, because I had to support my family; I had to go out and, you know�my father had TB, so it was...And uh, I remember years later, during which time he had done many of my works, and I used to visit Fritz and his wife Carlotta. And I was now in Connecticut, and came to see them when they had just come back from Chicago. Now, this is a long time after he was in Chicago, and he was getting sick, and he must have had a premonition or something. ETZ: This was in the fifties, was it? MG: Something like that; it was not too long before he died. He must have had a premonition, because when I came in, Carlotta had the letter. And she said, "you know we're going through our archives; we're putting things together." She said, "Did you ever see this?" And I looked at it and said, "That's my letter that I wrote." I didn't remember it. And she had tears in her eyes. And, Reiner was off in the corner, and I never saw them sentimental like that. And she said, you know, she said, and I read the letter, and I'd said, "You know I'd love to be able to do this but unfortunately I can't, you know. Thank you for the possibility, but I can't do it." I suppose if I saw that in a movie I might be moved and touched. Oddly enough, I couldn't�I mean, intellectually I could, but I'm not somebody who's a real, I'm not somebody who can go back and...But she was very touched, and you know, she said, "Fritz and I cried when we read it this morning." Now for Fritz and Carlotta to cry was really something, but there it was, and I said, "Can I have it?" And she said, "No, this is ours." And this is, this is before Xerox, and so on, so it's not as if you can say, well run it off on your machine. ETZ: So that's in the archives, in Curtis...where Reiner... MG: That's in wherever they went, somebody told me that they went to Yale. I don't know; I'm not sure where they are. But I would love to have a copy of that. ETZ: I don't know either. I know Curtis, Curtis has a big Stokowski Archive. When the Philadelphia Orchestra did my first symphony a few years ago, the archivist knew that I had played in the American Symphony under Stokie, and invited me to come over. They just have all kinds of things, including gongs... MG: Did you play, was he conducting when you played there? ETZ: Yes, I, in fact, I was there until he left. And then I had, I just stayed until his last year, and then I quit the American Symphony, 'cause I was... MG: He was amazing...he was a genius. ETZ: He was. Here's a picture of him; this is Morton and Stokie in around 1950. That's, I would swear he was still wearing that tie when I...some years later. MG: Probably. He probably...oh yeah, look at that. Look at that. ETZ: I wanna just back up for one moment here. You were mentioning about ASCAP, and I just wanted to go on the record of course that you were president of ASCAP. And a very important figure...here's a . . . MG: From 1986 to 1994. ETZ: And you have done a lot to ensure that composers do get properly, you know, paid for their work, and that their rights are meaningful. MG: Yeah, that's very important. ETZ: We're all grateful to you, as you know. MG: Because you know people have a feeling about�they can understand, I think, people who give certain kinds of services for which they have to get paid, or people who make things that people buy, and you have to purchase things. But it's a hard thing for a lot of people to understand that those who write music, really write this ephemeral texture of sounds that comes out of our brains and goes into a listener's ears. But we have to pay rent, unfortunately, So, how do we collect? That's a hard...I mean, that's a toughie. To this day, there's still a lot of you know, ASCAP and BMI, for that matter, copyright organizations still have to battle, especially with all the technology that's happening. The fact that somebody uses your music, you have to get compensated for it. People have the idea well, you know, people do it, artists do it, composers live in an attic. I mean, this is the mythology. And, and froth at the mouth, you know, and write things and they do it for Art, for Art's sake. Well, of course there is no such thing. ETZ: When was ASCAP founded? MG: 1914, founded by Victor Herbert. And of course, one of the early members, and one of the early...muscle was you know, was Irving Berlin. So it has a long history, for... ETZ: He certainly outlived many of his copyrights though. MG: Yes, sure. He saw a lot of it go into public domain. ETZ: Um, Herbert crops up in the Carnegie archives. Especially, I think the cello concerto I remember seeing a premier of that here. It's quite an interesting career that he had. I think it's a...he's a composer that we don't really know enough about today. Morton, let me just pull out another one of these Mitropoulos programs. This one is from '53, I think. Um, there's always some ad for corsets in this...I don't know [MG laughs] MG: You know of course when Shostakovich came over here the first time, he went to Carnegie Hall, and he was shocked at the ads, by the way, did you know that? ETZ: No, I didn't. MG: They were very, very Puritan . . . ETZ: Oh, yes. MG: The communists were really, you know, like the Puritans. He was shocked that they had ads for corsets and things like that, and also that people brought their coats into the auditorium, you know, that they didn't check it. Now what is this...oh yes, Whittenmore-Lowe. He did my dance variations with Whittenmore-Lowe. ETZ: Borodin Second Symphony. Are we missing a page in here? Oh here...yes we are. Oh, here we go. Krenek Concerto for Two Pianos and Orchestra. MG: Oh, that's right, yeah. Now Mitropoulos did both the Krenek and mine from memory. He did the whole program from memory. ETZ: Gee, that's extraordinary. He did a lot of Krenek apparently. MG: Yes, yes. He was very partial to Krenek, and he did Webern, he did Schoenberg. He did a number of people one has never heard of, but he, who were important at that time. And, when you look back upon it, I st-- you know, I meant to say before, when we were talking about what I did in radio et cetera, I had the image of being commercial, and subsequently I even went to Hollywood and did a movie in 1945 or so, one of the early Jane Powell movies. ETZ: Really? MG: I was in it, and I played myself, and wrote the music, et cetera. ETZ: What's the name of it? MG: Something called "Delightfully Dangerous." It had Ralph Bellamy and Arthur Treacher in it. Ah, so and then I did, in the fifties, I did a series of television scores, for CBS World War, called "World War One," archival film, a documentary. I did music for the NBC miniseries "The Holocaust," It was all, there was a number of movies it was on. I say all of this, putting it together with my radio background, that, you know, that we had a lot of snobbery in this country, and probably still have. And people sort of, you know, looked on me as being commercial, et cetera, which is true. But that was a, that was a downer, you know; that was negative. Originally it bothered me, but I was too busy to be too bothered by anything other than trying to meet the deadlines that I had. You know during the radio days, my programs had to be in eight weeks ahead of time. I did all the big arrangements and whatever I was doing in the rehearsals and the preparations. So I've always been running on a number of different tracks. But what was interesting is that, you see, for instance, one of the conductors who conducted me was Toscanini. Talking about conductors, Vladimir Golschmann, who was a wonderful conductor, and very well known at that time. Arthur Fiedler, et cetera--almost every conductor, de Sabata, I'm talking about the ones that are dead. Luckily, a lot of the most distinguished conductors today are performing. But the point that what I'm trying to make now is that my friends, like I told you before, were intellectual purists, and although they liked me personally, they sort of looked down their nose at me. They didn't take me seriously. The irony is that the Stokowski's and the Mitropoulos' and the Reiner's and the Toscanini's and so on, did. They did me because of the music. They couldn't care less the fact that I was doing so-called commercial things. So I never had any problem with them, but my problem was always with, in a sense, on a lower level, you know, of people who were, you know, I suppose it gave them a sense of superiority, in order to take that attitude toward me. Or for that matter, I'm sure they did it too in other areas of their life. There was this, gave them a feeling of security or whatever, however it pleased them. ETZ: Now, was Krenek in New York? MG: Probably about the same time... [unintelligible] And then he ended with the Borodin symphony... ETZ: Yeah...But and he also started with the.... MG: Now, here's the intermission.... What did he...what did he start with? ETZ: ...it was a...overture. MG: Oh. ETZ: A Mendelssohn overture. MG: Oh. ETZ: Yeah, programs, I think, certainly have changed. What I started to say: Was Krenek around New York? 'Cause I, I know that he- MG: Krenek I think lived...didn't he live on the coast? I don't think...I don't think he was... he lived... he uh- ETZ: He went to... MG: Or, or he was... ETZ: ...ended up at Hamline University in St. Paul or Minneapolis. MG: ...something, yeah, I was going to say. I had the feeling he was somewhere in the middle west. ETZ: He was there for a long time. So he took that route of getting a teaching position. I guess that might have been where he met Mitropoulos, when Mitropoulos was in... MG: Yeah, or they might have known each other from Europe. ETZ: Maybe. That I don't know... MG: They might have known each other from Europe. ETZ: But, it's interesting that, that Mitropoulos would do two... big, new works on the same program. MG: Yeah, it is. ETZ: It's quite extraordinary. MG: And see, and we talk...yeah it is. That's a very good observation. And yet as you know, Ellen, the irony is we're still fighting the same battle as all this talk and flack about maybe we ought to have new music done in a separate series, right, etcetera, I mean isolated. ghettoized, you know? In a way, we're still fighting a battle and if anything goes wrong, we say, 'Well maybe we shouldn't be doing too much...there are a lot of other corrections to be made,' and why it ends up on our shoulders all the time, I don't know. It's really not the idea that it's contemporary, or modern, or moderne, or whatever. It's that it's unfamiliar. And, um, what is important is for a�I think it's valid to�for a listener to be able to say, 'I hate that piece,' but at least listen to it. ETZ: Yeah. MG: You know? And music should be an adventure. It should be an event; it should be an experience. It should be... ETZ: Would you say, in general, Morton, that things are more composer friendly today than they were in the forties, say? MG: I think so. I think so. Even though almost everything I read seems to be doomsday. But, no, I think it's much more composer friendly. You're, I mean, you're a wonderful example of a terrific composer who...there are people who want to hear your music. ETZ: Knock on wood. [laughs] MG: You know, I don't think anybody is going to go belly up because they play Zwilich. They might go belly up because they might have done other things they shouldn't do...not necessarily musically. Even in perhaps the way it's structured, or whether it's too top-heavy. And also what's very important is to have... See, I think that if people can meet composers, that's why programs like 'Meet the Composer' and things that that ASCAP has done, to make monies available, and BMI has done, to make monies available for certain projects, commissioning projects, stimulating new works, getting young composers off the ground, helping them get off the ground. And a lot depends on the musical director too. If he or she has a personal communication with the audience, should give them a feeling that they go on an adventure every time that they come to a concert. Which they do. The wonderful thing about music is even when you're hearing Beethoven's Fifth for the hundredth time... ETZ: You want to hear it in a little new way and you... MG: �you never know what's going to happen, and it might be a great performance, it might be a disaster, it might be a bloody bore, it might be something exciting that you, that you come home and it's like drinking black coffee, that, there's adrenaline going. ETZ: Mm-hmm. MG: And you can hear a new work that can charge you up too. You can also hear a new work that can turn you off, but that's the hazards of the game. ETZ: It's, it's�I think I share your feeling that things are getting more [chuckles], things are getting...life is getting better for composers. It's getting more possible to do these things. And to be considered, as with everyone else, that this is a profession. Um, what do you think...do you think a lot about where music's going? Or things like that? What do you think about musical style? Does it concern you, a lot, or...? MG: Not really, I think, because, you know, we use a lot of words to describe: it's avant garde,' or 'rear garde,' or 'middle garde,' or 'maximalist,' or 'minimalist,' these are all terms. It depends what's done. It depends on the personal contribution of a particular kind of talent, or genius... that can do something with dishpans. You know, I mean, I think we're living in a very rich time of creativity [ETZ: I do, too.] of all kinds in this country. We tend to downgrade ourselves, we you know we wave the flag sometimes for the wrong reasons and we don't wave it for the right reasons. And I don't mean to be nationalistic, or chauvinistic, but I mean in the sense...but I do mean to be very positive about the wonderful sources and resources that we do have in this country. The people in the creative fields, in all the arts, and talking about music specifically, the wide range of wonderful contributions that are being made by not only the older composers, but the young ones coming up, I... you know, there's, there's a whole variety of music of different kinds, different styles; some of it is better, some of it is worse, some of it might not have much validity, and in which case, it�that's the end of it. But it�we have more opportunities for exposure today than we've ever had before. The whole, the whole composer residence, in residence idea. Recordings, the availability of tapes. We can hear from an educational point of view, as an example, we can hear via our technology, because of tapes, and now CDs, and now, what's coming up, is digital, we can hear music that we would have had to live, live a hundred lives to hear live, you know? ETZ: Or to make pilgrimages to places. I mean, I sat in a Buddhist monastery in Nepal, listening to Tibetan chant. And I can also go to the record store and buy a CD. So it's, it's extraordinary what's at our fingertips that, that would normally take tremendous effort to receive. MG: Right. ETZ: Even just from the standpoint of, you mentioned about the Beethoven symphonies, learning them four-hands, rather than hearing them with orchestra on a recording. And that, that of course, has changed the world. I think you have an attitude very similar to mine, and I think it's kind of an American attitude, that it's wonderful to have a proliferation of styles, and people that want to do different things. And what I listen for in a composer is that I want that composer to convince me that this piece that I'm listening to is just right, whatever its style. And I don't like to make value judgments on that basis. But, would you say, have you, do you want to talk at all about changes in styles in the last fifty years, which you've been so active in? I mean, I think you've evolved. You, you have not been one of the composers that changes, has an epiphany and changes what he is doing or someone who's done a lot of different stylistic things. But, I think you've more or less evolved, is that it? MG: Yeah� ETZ: How do you... MG: I think that I pretty much, yeah, and I didn't do it consciously. And there are things that I wrote that I knew were basically commercial things. Which was my radio programs, and I wrote a lot of things that would come under the heading of what we used to call novelties.' ETZ: Mm-hmm. MG: Um, but I think all of us, maybe if at all possible, have to, whatever we do, or however much we should, we might change, that we change for our own truth. ETZ: Hmm. MG: You know? And I think that those of us who are fortunate to have been given certain recognitions in the way of performances and names of honor, in the sense of honors and awards, that's all wonderful, cause as an example, we were talking about the Kennedy honors before, but, I know I feel very fortunate to have gotten, like you have, a Pulitzer prize, and deeply appreciative of it, But that, those awards and honors and recognitions still I think, those of us who are really serious about what we're doing, even if we're not writing so called serious music,'I mean, no matter what, we are people who always, should always be searching. And always aware of what's over the horizon. And now, that's a long, involved way, of, to responding to your question, or the implications of your question, which I think is a good one. I think that...let me put it this way. I will steal from any place. ETZ: [laughs] MG: I have no prejudice. I mean, I hear something that triggers me and if I can use it, and distill it then I will. But, I would hope that I always do it and am honest about it, and am aware. As an example, let me be a little more concrete. I've used a lot of jazz elements, over the years, way back when, going back to when I was sort of looked down upon as a, as an indication that I'm basically a, you know, one who's basically a light, or a, not a so-called serious composer. I did it because I, because I'm stimulated by that. Then other things for instance, but I've also used, I've used the row, I've used the serial technique. I think everything is usable. And I'm one of those composers who's used it, and I think I would hope that when I do it that I'm being honest about it, and that it comes out bas...but, I think it comes out basically as a part of me. ETZ: Mm-hmm. MG: And I think the same thing applies to you or anybody who, who has this creative urge and a creative surge. And that, when that surge comes, that pretty much absorbs and pulls in all kinds of lint, and maybe, um, brushes from the musical woodwork that's left laying around. And you, because you know, what we do really, we're recycling. Almost everything has been written anywhere. Almost everything has been done, in one form or another. You go back, even to the Baroque schools, though, and you see things, how for instance, some years ago I did something called Vivaldi Gallery, which is a, it's a symphonic variant on this, variants on Vivaldi materials. I'm not a musicologist. I'm not a purist, but, and I knew a lot, some of the obvious Vivaldi, but I went into a lot of Vivaldi to see. I was amazed. He's written some dramatic things. If I played them for you... ETZ: Yes, I'm-, yes, it is surprising, isn't it? MG: �you would say, Well, that, it could have been Wagner,' yeah? I've done a work on a, Jekyll and Hyde variations, on the row, that Mitropoulos did. ETZ: 1957?� MG: You think you... so I find this all useable, it stimulates me, and I do, I am concerned about communicating. I do want to communicate to a listener. It pleases me if somebody...or even for somebody to say, you know, I heard the piece, I can't stand it.' Fine. But you listened; you heard it. ETZ: Yeah. That is a reaction also. MG: Yeah, well... ETZ: I'd rather have that than the sort of flat reaction. MG: Well, than, say people don't care. And I think that we live in a time of, I, the one thing that disturbs me a little bit is, and what that amuses me on this, is that, now, I have comments that are, Well, the serial system caused, it drove audiences away.' Well, now that doesn't do anything, you see, in other words, eve...some of my colleagues who have said this, I think that every, every way of making music is valid. And now to suddenly go to the other extreme, from the extreme of saying that the only way to write is that way, which I went through, and maybe you experienced that...I don't think so; you're too young...but, certainly I went through a period, where really critically, you couldn't get any attention unless you were following the central European, the whole, the whole serial... ETZ: the second Viennese school. MG: Yeah, literally, you know? And any deviation, or compromise done with that, or modification, was a no-no. And you were immediately out of the club. There was a period when it was difficult to get past...and critics, some of them made their reputation by setting them up as arbiters and saying, This is it, and anything else doesn't count.' Well, that is limiting. And that in plain ways is stupid. From a long main point of view. But now it tends to go to the other extreme, where suddenly they say, 'We're going to throw the baby out with the bath,' or 'This, all of this was terrible; all of this was negat-' No! Come on now. Schoenberg, whichever way you c-, is a very Romantic composer. ETZ: And Berg, especially. MG: And, Berg, and Webern, and etc. I mean, they, I mean Wozzeck is a fabulous piece of musical theater, from any point of view. The system doesn't matter. And systems change, and modify, and they vary. We went from maximalist, to minimalist, and I find these times very exciting times, and times that I think are very productive, and we're in a country that has, no country in the world has as many first class symphony orchestras as we have. ETZ: Mm-hmm. MG: Not to mention very good orchestras that are lower-budgeted, and do programs, and do unfamiliar music about, as well as familiar music. The number of people making music of one form or another. Pop music is full of great things that are happening. Whether you call it, you know, whether it is country and western, rock, soft rock, hard metal or soft metal, or rap...these are all names. Within all these categories, there's a certain, relatively small percentage of things being done that I think will endure, and enrich all of us. And in the so-called serious field, or classical field the same thing is happening. What's going to be around fifty years from now? Who knows? Our whole...already we all...our ears are geared to other kinds of sounds, to different kinds of sounds. I don't know. Maybe we're going to come to a time when everything will be electronic and we won't have to go to a concert...we'll put a little module up we take out of our insides, and that registers, and that registers the piece. We'll come home and we'll see whether we like it or not. Who knows? ETZ: [laughs] MG: I mean, there are all kinds of possibilities. One thing that I would like to say, Ellen, and I want to ask you, have you ever had the feeling that you would love, as a composer, to be able to transmit from your brain right onto paper, without having to write every note? ETZ: Without having to write it down and correct it... MG: Right. ETZ: �after you've done it [laughs] MG: I mean to just, you know, as you think of it? Because, as you know, you can hear a wonderful passage, and it can take you two hours to write the thing out. Turns out to be five seconds or ten seconds. [laughs] Just the calligraphy of it. ETZ: Yeah, no, that's, that's, in a way I kind of feel like that's paying the piper for this wonderful privilege of being a composer. You have to do all this [laughs]... MG: Yeah, paper work. ETZ: Yeah, yeah. MG: Paperwork, yeah. ETZ: [laughs] But, you know, you, you said something about Vivaldi that made me think that, I know any time that you've scratched the music of the past, all of the conventional wisdom about whatever this is, is not exactly wrong, but not the whole story. MG: That's right. ETZ: And when we think of how this can be true, in the case of a composer whose entire work is known, or is potentially knowable to us, like Vivaldi, of a time that was much simpler, with fewer people, in a tiny geographic area, and all of these things that make it much easier to understand. When you extrapolate to today, where we have so many things, and so many sources, and so much music, it's amazing to me that people even want to try to put a label on it, and say, you know, that this is the 'age of minimalism,' or what-whatever it is. You know, it seems to me kind of extraordinary that people want to do this when it doesn't seem to make a lot of sense. MG: Well, because I think it...well, if you're going to use words about music, and a lot of people do, certainly if is was a critic who has to write about it, what is it, you have to write words that are descriptive to what you think describe the music. And, they might be prejudicial words; they might be words that absolutely go against the whole intent of the piece, but there again we do use words, and if we just only use words for the basic things that we need them, we wouldn't say anything, you know? I wouldn't have to say 'Good morning,' to you; it's obviously a good morning and I don't have to do it. ETZ: [laughs] MG: It's redundant, you know? Now critically, of course, if I'm a very, very�if I'm an aesthete and I think if I could...I might say to you, despite what you might think, this has been a horrible morning, and the sun isn't out, and there are really dark clouds, and, you know, that opens up a conversation and you can say to me, 'Well, are you crazy?' I say, 'No, you are, for thinking that the sun is out when I'm telling you that it's really not.' I mean, we can do a whole...[makes circular motion with hands] And in a way, when one talks about music, and I think you and I have read writings to that effect, where, there again, it's how many angels can dance on the point of a needle. You know, it's a, well, people make a living out of that, and they have to say something. And really, I don't have any feeling of, about what people write about music, or what they write about my music. I would like every...you know, I think we all want to be loved, and liked, and sometimes we're not loved and liked. Well, that's part of it...goes with the turf, goes with the territory. ETZ: Yeah. Morton: back to the fifties. We have a, another program here from Carnegie Hall, with the Philharmonic with Mitropoulos, and I noticed that, in this program, John Corigliano is the violin soloist, and I think it's the Sibelius concerto. And of course we are very familiar with his son, the composer John Corigliano. MG: Wonderful composer. Yeah. ETZ: Is this the program� MG: Where's the rest of this? ETZ: ...with a, with the Mennin sixth symphony, or is that a later one? MG: Wait, unless I skipped... ETZ: I see that there's an ad for Peter Mennin. MG: Oh, yes, that work of his must be on the program...'under the direction�' ETZ: Oh and here's that corset ad again. MG: Oh, look at that. Yeah... my. ETZ: [laughs] Um, how would you say, what was the climate, let's say, at, at this time. Now we're� MG: What year is this? ETZ: We're looking at the mid-fifties. What would you say was the climate of works being received at that time, like Mennin. Mennin was thought of very highly, wasn't he? MG: Yes, yeah. I don't think Mennin, or writers like that had a�that there was, you know� perhaps their audience, if you gave them votes, would say that they love it as much as they do the Tchaikovsky Pathetique, or the, or there again, the Beethoven Fifth, and so on. But you know, I don't remember, for instance in talking about the fifties, and we're looking at programs now that have a lot of unfamiliar things, there was the Mennin, there were my things, so, I, although I didn't poll the audience, I don't recall feeling there was really antagonism toward it. I...Yeah because, because we are talking about composers including me, who are not certainly writing as well within the sort of mainstream of symphonic musical sound as we know it. We would have to judge...to answer you question...I'm trying to think of whether, 'cause Mitropoulos did do, not only Mitropoulos, but even conductors even like, for instance, like, Zukovsky, would come in with something that was sort of relatively off-beat... ETZ: Zukovsky always did modern music, and I played violin in the American symphony for seven years, and we did a new piece on almost every concert. He was adamant about it. MG: What did you think, did you feel that the audience was was negative, or antagonistic? ETZ: No, I'm�I think the audience is smarter than a lot of people give them credit for. I think they�it's harder for them to warm up to something that they've never heard before, that probably for them goes by very quickly and a part of the reason that people love this Beethoven Fifth again is that they, they're into it now. MG: They know it now. ETZ: They've heard it enough, and it's in their bones. And we of course, with a brand new piece we don't have that advantage. But I think audiences are pretty, generally speaking, pretty open minded. MG: Yeah. ETZ: I think probably more so today, than they have been in the past. MG: Ah, yes, I think so too, because I think there was a bit more exposure of composers because of, you know, more complicity about it, the whole comp�and what we were talking before about composer and residence programs, pre-concert symposiums where you, where you...see I think, once an audience or a part of the audience can actually see a composer, and this composer is not this sort of... ETZ: Is a) not dead. MG: �strange...yeah right...this, this wild, wild-eyed person, who, you know, has the aberrations, is this aberrated human being and therefore, he throws all these sounds around; once they get to see and know this person...unless it's a mad composer; we have some colleagues who are mad, and, and who... ETZ: And we know who we're talking about.[laughs] MG: �can turn an audience off even before the piece is played...and but I mean, barring that kind of thing, basically I think people are curious, and they want to�and I think they would want to pay, give serious attention, because in meeting the...assuming that they meet the composer in the forum that I described...that they would react as the, they would react in meeting anybody who let's say does something that's strange to them, and they'd say, 'Well, how do you do this?' You know? 'I mean, we understand that you make, that you manufacture icicles, as an example, that nobody can see. Or that drip in a corner of the room and create a feeling of northern climate. I mean, how do you make it?' you know? I mean, I'm being over-dramatic now, but you know what I'm getting at... ETZ: Yes, that they're interested in the process, and.... MG: So, a lot of things that people are curious about. Now, there are people who are not curious about anything, period. They go to a concert and very often, I don't think they themselves are sure what, they say, 'Well, somebody gave me a ticket,' 'Oh, well, we have a subscription, and we go there,' and basically, some don't go there to hear the soloist. They want to hear the Mendelssohn concerto again, and or hear a piece that they know, and that they know where it's coming from. it's like being on a familiar road, and you don't want to go off to a side road; you want to stay on the main highway, which you've done, and you can do it almost automatically. But, barring that, I think people are vulnerable to, and open to the experience. ETZ: I do too. We've both done a lot of this pre-concert discussion with an audience, questions and things. What's the funniest thing that anybody asked you? I think mine is, I was once asked, 'Are you a living composer?' And, [MG: laughs] I think each of us has had some really wonderful kind of question that reflects the fact that people find what we do rather mysterious. And, what's your question that was...? MG: Well, that's of course, that question was... MG: ...they will say, very often, they will say, What inspires you?' And I got, and I'm repeating myself now, and my, maybe you've, you've used the same thing. They say, Well, what inspires you?' I say, A commission.' I said, 'That is the best inspiration that a composer can have.' Contrary to the whole mythology that, you know, we sit around, as I said before, in an attic somewhere, and no, I say that it's amazing how the possibility, or the offer of being paid inspires. And it always has. I mean, I'm not comparing- ETZ: I like a deadline, myself, too... MG: Well it, well it, me�but it means a deadline, too. Exactly, exactly. ETZ: And, I get very turned on knowing who I'm writing for. Like, I just finished my triple concerto, for the Calix Nine Loredo Robinson trio, and I was just feeling so wonderful about hearing them play this piece in my head, you know, and knowing somebody's waiting for it, I think is a tremendous spur for us MG: It's the de�You are absolutely right. A deadline really gets your muscles going. It gets your adrenaline going. But of course usually that comes out for, either for, from a commission, or because, you know, you're doing, you're going to do something for a group. It is the pressure that makes us, r� because there are two levels. One is the level of always f�being, having ideas. I'm sure, I have. I have a little sketch book that I carry around with me very often, where I'll write down a certain motive, or a certain kind of texture, or passage... ETZ: I don't do that. I have this kind of crazy theory that if I forget it, it's not memorable. So, I kind of force myself not to write down an idea. MG: Well this is interesting because usually, I don't use them. ETZ: That's interesting MG: And I seldom use it. ETZ: Yeah. MG: Because, first of all, I write in, basically, I write, with a few minor exceptions, such as I'll write a birthday piece for my children, or a wedding piece for a member of my family who's getting married or something like that. But I mean, outside of that, I write for, on...on commission, and the commission might be for a completely different kind of piece that I might have sketches for or made some notations on. Plus the fact that what I really, what I said on the two levels, at least for me, it's that level where I'm always, you know, I can always write something. But I don't unless there is a reason. And the reason is that somebody wants a piece at a certain time. And that deadline pressure and that commission is what eventually triggers me. Even though I go through a long thing, and my family often kids me about that, but, always they'd say, 'Oh, dad is dried out again,' you know, I'd say, 'I'll never write another note,' I mean, that's it. ETZ: That's, oh yeah. Yeah. It... MG: Now, do you go through an agonizing period? I look at the score paper and I say, 'How can I fill this up?' ETZ: And, um, just feeling kind of helpless. And, yeah, I often have a, in the initial stages of a piece, I have a feeling of floating at sea, and, you know... MG: That's exactly right. ETZ: �kind of not knowing where to drop the anchor. And even though you've been through this, time after time after time, this is going to be the time that it's true, you know, when one is afraid. MG: You know what, you're, you're giving birth again. ETZ: Yeah. MG: And you have to go through all those maneuvers within yourself to get the damn thing out, and to also get... ETZ: But there's this, for me there's this sort of magic moment when it begins to, it grabs hold... MG: To float, yeah, yeah. ETZ: �and there you go. You're really on you're way. MG: Now, what I've also said, to people, and maybe you've said the same thing, along when they say inspiration, then they say 'What is the greatest moment, then; is it when you hear the piece for the first time?' And I say the greatest moment really is, for me and I have a feeling it is for you, and all, and for almost all of our colleagues, is exactly what you're talking about, that at three A.M. in the morning, when suddenly, the thing starts to flow, it goes by itself. Good, bad, or indifferent, this is you. I mean, this is you. There is, it's almost impossible to use words to describe it, because that's a euphoria that is at that poi-, at that moment, and that, then it sustains itself until the thing gets finished, then it pours out. Then what happens is I've got more ideas than I know what to do with, you know? ETZ: Yeah. MG: Then it's a question once you get older... ETZ: Leaving out, yeah. MG: �you say, No, I'm going to cut this out right here, because if I leave it in, at a certain point, I'm going to take it out any way. I'm not going to waste time on it. In taking the time to write the whole thing out. And you just keep rolling, and that's it. Then what comes after, certainly, is a wonderful experience, to the ritual and the amenities of the first performance, etc. And hopefully, the, to have a good audience reaction. But the real peak is by yourself. ETZ: Mm-hmm. Isn't it strange, when you think about it what we do requires us to sit in a room alone, for hours and hours and hours, and dealing with only our imagination. And then, I always have the feeling like I've been shot out of a cannon into this public space of your performance, you know, where now there are three thousand people who are going to hear it� MG: you're coming into the- yeah, right. Yeah. ETZ: �and there's an orchestra of a hundred people, and you're just suddenly in a, in kind of a social situation...a world of things going on, and all the personalities of the musicians, and it's really kind of an unusual life. It reminds me, in a way, of, you know, the Scandinavian practice of diving into the ice cold lake and then coming out into the sauna, or something... MG: Yeah, yeah. ETZ: It, um, has that effect. Do you feel, also, that I mean, goodness, you've got pieces that are, are in their fifties that are still getting played. Um there's a kind of a magical thing...I would say for me that one of the real deep and abiding pleasures is hearing music that's been done enough that it's really in the bones of the performers. And, where you hear a performance where you're able to just sort of relax, and... MG: You mean, of, of your piece. Yeah. Yes. ETZ: Yes. And really, you know, that kind of thing, that to me probably is the second peak. MG: Do you allow performers much leeway in playing your music? Or, conducting it, or so? Or... ETZ: Well, yes. I think, see I think; Stokowski used to say, you know, this is such a primitive, you know, black dots on white paper, it's such a primitive blueprint, and I think it is, although we can do a lot more than a playwright can about how something is to be executed. I think there's a lot of room for the imagination of the performer. And what I feel is that in every good performance of a particular piece, there's a kind of a core of the piece that stays the same. But there's just a lot, sort of around that, that there's room for really an imaginative performer. I mean, as long as somebody's not doing something by default. But, if they have thought about it, and they wanted to change the tempo a little bit here, or, you know, flexibility in tempo, for, particularly, is very important to me. I don't know how you feel about that. MG: Yes. I'm not there�again, I'm not a purist in that either and I've had the experience of hearing a work of mine done, and as you know, as a conductor, I've done a lot of, you know, of different things, and repertory, and so on. I've had the experience of hearing a conductor do a work of mine that I might have conducted, and I think, 'Hey why didn't I do it that way?' You know, it didn't occur to me. Now oddly, when I've done my own music as a conductor, I usually give that the least amount of attention. And, I've even had orchestra players say to us, 'You know, you spend so much time on everything else, and you're really�you know, when we asked you a question earlier we said, was this right or wrong? and you just said, Forget it, play whatever you want there,' or what, you know�I tend to be more casual. And that's understandable too, because I have a fe�I feel a responsibility� ETZ: I don't think I would feel that way... MG: �to other composers, you know? But, but I... ETZ: Do you like to conduct? MG: Yes. Yeah. It's, obviously it's not...I've never wanted to have a post. ETZ: Mm-hmm. MG: But I've enjoyed conducting, and I've been fortunate, you know, and conduct I think all our great orchestras here, and also orchestras�I've had some wonderful experiences with orchestras on, lower-budgeted orchestras, that have a dedication and involvement. And of course, one of the things that I treasure is that memory of working with Chicago, with the Chicago orchestra... ETZ: Yeah, that's a... MG: And recording with them. ETZ: Wonderful band, isn't it? MG: It's a fabulous, yeah, but we have a lot of great orchestras but you know, when you work with a group like Chicago's, this is really something that's a joy, It's a joy, it's a terrific, wonderful experience. And I've had very good relationships, I think, with almost all the orchestras that I've conducted. ETZ: Here's a nice picture of you from 1974. Here at Carnegie Hall, conducting the American symphony. MG: Yes, I conducted them many times, and had a number I've...I even recorded with them. ETZ: Mm-hmm. This is from the Kennedy honors. There's a picture of you with Paul McCartney. [laughs] Here's an old picture of you conducting what looks like a radio orchestra in here. Where is it? No, that's, that's something else. Where is this? Well, you, there you go. That's, that's the radio orchestra at WOR you were talking about. Is this the town hall probably, is it? Looks like it might be... MG: No, the, on�does it say radio? Let me see. ETZ: 'Music for today, WOR radio.' MG: Oh, WOR, yeah, no we had an audience, many of my promos had an audience. You know, this might be the Amsterdam roof. ETZ: Oh really? MG: Yup, we used to broadcast out of there. ETZ: This was 1934. Yeah. MG: That could be one. ETZ: Do you, would you say you sort of divide your time now, between composing and conducting? Or... MG: No, I do very little conducting now. ETZ: Very little? MG: When I became president of ASCAP, it was impossible for me, I really had to be very careful, of the�because you see, because conducting means, it's not just that you go in there and out of there, you go in, and if you're doing a, let's say a subscription, pair, you know there's a day of travel and a day to come back, and within, it can be a couple of days of rehearsing, and the concerts themselves...you, it's a week! ETZ: Yeah. MG: So, I had to be very careful, because, wi-, as president of ASCAP, I was the CEO, and it would, I, it�you know, this was a very responsible position that I had, and I either did it or I didn't. So I had to really back off a lot of things, and you very easily get off the track. I managed to do some... ETZ: Do you find hearing other people's music in that intimate a context, where you're really working on it is a stimulus, or, is it a good or a bad thing for you as a composer? MG: You mean while you're... ETZ: When you're preparing a concert program that has other people's music on it. And you really have to get inside that music... MG: Yeah. Oh you mean for me as a composer, No, I haven't found that, no, no. But it's but as I said before, I never had a post, so, even though as a guest conductor I had a lot of appearances, but I was never aware of its getting in my way. It, maybe it does, in a way that I don't know, you know? Sub-consciously, but influence, by whatever the immediate scores are that I'm looking at. Especially if it's, let's say, a contemporary work. But I'm not aware of it. I don't think so. No. ETZ: Morton, I have a program here from 1957 at Carnegie Hall, with the Symphony of the Air. Which was I guess Toscanini... MG: Oh, yes, yes, that was the Toscanini orchestra, and they were now a collective orchestra. ETZ: And he died like the year before, perhaps? I... MG: What year was this? ETZ: '50-, this was February of '57. So this was the '56-'57 season. MG: I don't recall whether he was dead yet, or whether he was still alive, but... [Nick, off camera: I think he died later in '57.] MG: �you think so, I don't remember the exact year, but yes... ETZ: Now, here is a... MG: Now what did I do there? ETZ: This is Maurice Weed, Symphony Number One. MG: I don't know that...did I conduct that? ETZ: This is something for the American Music Festival. MG: Well, when, no wait a minute, it was the symphony, yeah... ETZ: They played a piece of yours. MG: Oh, oh, oh, this is Walter Winchell conducting. ETZ: Howard... MG: Ah! Now why did I say Walter Winchell? Isn't that weird? ETZ: The fifties... MG: Why would I... [laughs] ETZ: [laughs] Something about the fi... MG: Oh no, no, you know what it is that I saw was Howard Mitchell. ETZ: Yeah. MG: [laughs] ETZ: [laughs] MG: It's Howard Mitchell; I should have put my glasses on. Now, Howard Mitchell was an excellent conductor, by the way. He died a few years ago... ETZ: Didn't he go to the National Symphony? MG: Of the National Symphony...yes. He was originally a cellist, and he followed Hans Kimmler, who was also a wonderful cellist who was the conductor of the National Symphony, and then Howard Mitchell followed him. ETZ: Mm-hmm. MG: Isn't that weird the way I, cou..., I, because I couldn't see it clearly. Now, let's see... ETZ: Maurice Weed...this is somebody I haven't heard of. Earl George, Morton Gould... MG: Ah. I say, he's my doing my Declaration Suite. Before I thought you said that I conducted the program. ETZ: No, no, this is; they did the Declaration Suite. MG: Yeah, yeah. ETZ: Um, but I wanted to show... MG: Oh, look at the sign here. Oh, look at that. ETZ: �this ad for 'Gould in person on RCA Victor Records.' Nick this� MG: Yeah, yeah that's a way back. ETZ: �this is 1957. It's interesting, what they were advertising. I mean... MG: Well right here, look at the variety of music. The, that, in this case that involves me, but here is, what does this say up here? 'Morton Gould,' what is this? ETZ: 'An American in Paris,' 'Porgy and Bess'... MG: Oh, yes, oh, well I did, I did a whole two LP set of Gershwin, I played and conducted the concerto in F, the Rhapsody in Blue. My own setting of Porgy and Bess, American in Paris, the Piano Preludes of Gershwin, and also excerpts from a, there's a fu�great piano solo in Porgy, and I did that, and so here it is, there's an ad...I did the Oklahoma and Carousel suites, which I arranged, my own, I did Scheherazade, and... ETZ: Wouldn't they have been, what was his name, Richard Rodney Bennett, or something? MG: Oh, Robert Russell Bennett... ETZ: ...Robert, Robert Russell, I'm sorry, that's a British composer, yeah... MG: Well, it's like Walter Winchell, right? ETZ: Yeah. [laughs] MG: That's right, Rodney, that's right, British composer�Now, what was your question? ETZ: Robert Russell Bennett... MG: Robert Russell Bennett did a Porgy and Bess symphonic picture. Is that what you're referring to? ETZ: No, I just, I just thought that he had done a lot of these Broadway... MG: Oh, he did. Yes, sure, sure. He orchestrated a lot of them. Yeah, wonderful orchestrater, a wonderful person too. Very gifted. ETZ: So, I mean, in other words, there was�there wasn't an existing, like, overture to Oklahoma? Or... MG: Yeah, but I didn't do it, no. In this case, what I did was Oklahoma and Carousel, and what I did was the orch... the whole musical score for orchestra... ETZ: Oh, like, like a potpourri, or something? MG: Yeah, pretty much straight down the line, and in Carousel, I even did a soliloquy and I did it as a symphonic suite. ETZ: Mm-hmm. MG: Yeah, and the same that I did with Oklahoma. So in both cases, you heard in this suite pretty much the whole score. Everything that was in it. ETZ: That's interesting. MG: And then I see I did this album called 'Jungle Drums.' Which I forget, I did a lot of Lecuona, and you know, he did a lot of things like, 'Malaguena,' and 'Andalucia,' 'Andaluthia,' and so on and so on, so... ETZ: I noticed this ad about Renault of France: 'Going to Europe? You're free to roam wherever you fancy.' MG: Oh, yeah. ETZ: Here we are, not too terribly long after the war. And, I guess enough Americans were going abroad and the dollar was very strong. I guess people were coming back with a Volkswagen or a Renault... MG: That's right. Sure, because you could get a lot of stuff there, and get it very, you know, cheaper than you could get it here. And you know, that's there again...we've gone through amazing changes of all kinds. ETZ: When I think about it, it hadn't occurred to me looking at your history, briefly, and of course I've known you as a friend for, and a colleague, for a long time, now you, you've been through the Depression, World War II, the aftermath of all of that, and of course, all of our recent history, is there anything you want to say about all of that? Or...or just... MG: Well, you know... when you're living it, you're not knowing it, in a way. In a sense you only know it after, afterward. As an example, I knew so many of these people, most of whom, whom are dead now. Great artists, wonderful artists, fellow composers, etc., and, now when you know them on the battlefield, where everybody is, you know, we're all trying to in our own ways, survive and exist economically, etc., musically, trying to get performances, and, in my case, doing so many, often simultaneously, having a big recording career, and guest conducting, and composing, and being on committees, about, you know, musical committees...I've served a short period with the National Endowment for the Arts, the, Music Division on the board of the American Orchestras League, I've also been what we would call, I suppose, a musical citizen you know, involved in all of these things. On the board of ASCAP for many years, sharing some of the committees, say, eight years I served as president. So, you're doing all that, and so you really don't think of it and analyze it. But now, I look back on all of this, and I think to myself, 'Gee, that was a lot of action,' I mean, and I, you know, and some of it has stuck, some of it has disappeared, what was your question again? [laughs] ETZ: [laughs] It doesn't matter. Excuse me. MG: They�I think what I do feel is what we spoke about before. I do think thatthese are better times. With all the problems that we have now, and different problems, but in terms of our music, I do feel that we are living in good times...they're difficult times, but they always have been, and now, the problem is to keep our music afloat. Keep it airborne, you know? And to the extent that we can help do it in whatever ways, I think that we all have that responsibility, not only for ourselves, but for the others around us, and for our colleagues and, and for the wonderful contributions that music makes to the living existence, to people's spirit and souls and minds and music of all sorts, you know? From the directly communicative pop expressions, to the more complex manifestations of the musical creative spirit, that's all very important, all very important part of our society, and I would hope that this continues to, develop, and to grow, and I feel very fortunate to have been a part of it. ETZ: Hmm. Well, I tell you, you've certainly been a staple here at Carnegie Hall. Looking at this sheet here that Robert has prepared on the 'Morton Gould and the Archives,' and we see since 1938 performance after performance. I mean, I've dragged out a bunch of the old programs, but they go right into the 90s, and there isn't a decade after the 30s that you're not represented and in a very fine setting. You know, with the Philharmonic, when it was here, and with the American Symphony, a great deal of... MG: Maybe that's why they've had to redo the hall. ETZ: [laughs] MG: [laughs] Well, no this is co... ETZ: Well you did write a work in 1990 that the American Symphony did, called 'Housewarming,' so... MG: Yes. Now this has been a really, I think, to me, or to anyone like me, this has been a, you know, this is a musical home. ETZ: Yeah. MG: There are no two ways about it. I mean the number of times that I've stood waiting to go out on that stage and conduct, very often sometimes with a wondering, 'Did I have enough rehearsal for this piece? Well let's hope this is it, that this is the moment, the moment of truth,' that it happens the way that it should, as you know if you've played in orchestras before. You can have a great dress rehearsal, and the whole thing can collapse as soon as you do it for the audience. Or the other way around. There again: the adventure of music. You just, you really don't know, you know? People say to me, 'How do you think it's gonna to go?' I said, I have no idea.' Or else I'll say, 'Well, how did it go?' I'll say, 'It went.' You know? And you hope that what you heard up on the stage, and there again as a conductor, or even as a player, I'm sure you probably participate in a performances where the way you've heard, let's say, wild acclaim from the audience, and you're not too sure why it's happening, all you know is you, you were so busy trying to figure out what your notes were... ETZ: Yeah. I think every performer has not only that experience of it somehow or other reached the audience, and maybe you didn't even feel well that day, and on other occasions where you're pouring your heart out, and they don't quite feel it. Here's this program from the American Symphony with the Homecoming. I see this was in 1990 with the hundredth anniversary season of Carnegie Hall. The Fanfarades, I like that. Catherine Comet, was the music director at that moment. MG: Yes, excellent, by the way. ETZ: Yes, I know she's very good. There's an also a quite recent performance, and it's something I heard the Chicago symphony play when they were on tour but it's down here in our archives. A little work called 'Chicago.' MG: Oh yes. [laughs] ETZ: And you could probably tell us a little bit about this. MG: When I was...wait-now who was conducting, was it Barenboim? ETZ: Barenboim, yeah. And, he does...he does this very, very well, by the way... MG: I... ETZ: It was a very nice performance. MG: I think, I imagine he would, yes. I'm sure he does. He's a wonderful musician, and I was amazed when I heard that he was doing it. ETZ: Yeah. MG: See, um, when I was conducting Chicago, when I was guest conducting, in the, that goes, what, I think in the sixties, or something like that... ETZ: This I don't know, because this was a program in, it's '92 here. MG: Yeah, yeah, but in any case, one of my soloists, during the course of the concerts I gave, was Benny Goodman, who is an old friend of mine; a colleague. I've written works for him. And Benny was doing the Nielsen Clarinet concerto with me in Chicago, and we recorded it. We recorded it for RCA Victor. Benny, now, when he appeared with me, this was the first time he had come back to Chicago in years. That was where he was born; he grew up there. So it was a very celebratory kind of event. Not only the fact that he was a world-wide, renowned artist, but that he was now coming back to Chicago, where he was born, etc. and appearing with this great orchestra. So, I wrote a piece for him. I suggested it and Benny liked the idea. I said, you know, 'Well, why don't we'...... MG: ...think so, yeah. That looks like his home in Connecticut, I think. ETZ: Mm hmm. That has a feel to it. You were saying, when I started to tell you about the Chicago thing is that their principal clarinetist, Larry Combs, is very, very good at this. When I heard that he stood up and played, it was really terrific. MG: When I wrote it for Benny and we did it, and of course when we did that encore, the place just exploded. ETZ: Yeah. MG: And I forgot about it, I mean, I never thought about it. You know, everybody would talk about my works and so on, and I would never even think about saying, 'Oh, and I did a setting of Chicago.' I had done it, and that was it. And then I started to hear rumors that, you know, that Chicago went to Europe and you know what they took with them, what they played, was 'Chicago.' Well, at first I thought that the person who told this to me was pulling my leg. I said, why would they be playing my arrangement of Chicago anyplace? They said, "Well," and I said, "Who's conducting it?" And I think Barenboim was doing it. Or, I'm trying to remember any chance if Solti might have done it. Anyway, what happened was that you know, they have a big five- or six-CD compilation of Chicago recordings with conductors going back to Frederick Stock, and of course Fritz Reiner, et cetera on down to Solti. And included in that is a recording of 'Chicago,' I mean, it's part of the cd. ETZ: With Benny Goodman? MG: Yeah, that's the performance I did with Benny. ETZ: Here's an earlier picture of Benny Goodman. MG: And of course, Benny's relationship to Carnegie Hall is a very...and they said "starring Benny Goodman-a concert at Carnegie Hall." ETZ: Were you here? MG: No! That goes, no, I was not here for that. But that broke, that was one of the things that broke the barrier between so-called pop...nobody thought of jazz going into Carnegie Hall. Anyway, then the next thing about 'Chicago' is that Daniel Barenboim has been performing. I've never heard him do it, you know, but I've got all these wonderful reports about how he he does it... ETZ: It's a winner. MG: ...especially after a so-called serious program, he comes out and does Chicago. And then in Europe, you see this is the amazing thing about our popular music, they know our popular music. ETZ: They know that too. MG: They all responded. They knew, as soon as they heard it. They reacted as enthusiastically as an American audience does. I'm very curious. I hope one of these days I'll have the pleasure of hearing it . . . ETZ: You'll like it. MG: And play it, conduct it with a wonderful clarinetist. ETZ: Um, Morton, reeling all the way toward the present, I, you know there's just so much here I, that we could talk about. We could go on and on and on. I just want to say something about your having received the Pulitzer Prize, and what this means, you know in general for American music. It's very interesting I think. You've emphasized that because of your work in all these other areas that there was a period of time when you felt there were many people who didn't take you seriously, although when we look at this record, obviously the major conductors of five decades took you very seriously. But it's really wonderful that you received the Pulitzer Prize, and most people, who have never received a Pulitzer Prize, have no idea how we find out. I think they think that there's some wonderful ceremony, you know . . . MG: That's right. ETZ: Now I think they're producing it a little bit better, but I found out, for instance, from a telephone call. I'm sitting at my desk working, writing music, and I got this call from a wire service wanting background information on me. And I said, "Why?" And he said, "Oh, don't you know? You received the Pulitzer Prize." [ETZ laughs] Your story is really quite, I think the most unusual one I've heard, so maybe you'll share it with us. MG: Well, at that time...this is this past year, you know, it happened in 1995. I was chairing, this particular day, a symphony concert committee meeting in ASCAP. And I live in a suburb outside of New York City, and I rarely come into the city anymore, once I resigned the presidency of ASCAP and so on, and so that I was, I really came in this day very reluctantly and sort of in not too good a mood. I was writing, I had some kind of deadline...a commission deadline. I forget which piece it was. And you know, I had to get dressed and get myself together and come into the city. At Penn Station, and then up the subway to Lincoln Center, which is right across the street from the ASCAP headquarters. And I walked in, and there were my colleagues there. They were there with the committee meeting, and I was told that my friend Rachel, as a matter of fact, who was with Meet-the-Composer for many years and a wonderful friend of composers, and she's with ASCAP, she runs the symphony department, the concert symphony department. And she starts to talk to me about something about the Pulitzer Prize, and she said, I forget exactly what she said...she said...I know what it was. She said, "Cia Toscanini." Now Cia Toscanini works at ASCAP, in the concert department, "she wants to talk to you." And I said, "you know, unless it's something very urgent, I'm in a hurry. I really want to get in and out of here and get home." She said, "No, it's important...call Cia." So I call Cia and she says, "Do you know about it?" I said, "About what?" She said, "The Pulitzer Prize." I said, "Cia, I've just come in from Long Island. I'm in a hurry. I've got to get this meeting started; I've got a lot of people sitting around. I'm chairing it, we've gotta get going, and I want to get home. Let me talk to you some other time." "No-no-no," she said, "don't get mad. You really won it." I said, "Now isn't it funny that you know about it and I don't? Come on now, what's the gag?" And I was sure, as I got ready to end the call, I said, "Let's discuss this some other time." And I hung up, I went back to the meeting, and I said, "Come on Fran, let's get this thing going." She says, "What are you so mad about?" "Well," I said, "it's not mad, but what is this, you're playing games. What's the gag about the Pulitzer?" "No," she said, "Matter of fact, you've got to make some phone calls right away, because Associated Press..." I don't know, some other wires. Then it suddenly started to dawn on me, now the only person in that room who didn't know I had gotten the Pulitzer Prize was me. I found out later that members of my family knew about it because in the morning it had been broadcast on the news! And with your story, you see? They release it, because the Pulitzer Prize was originally a jour...I asked about that, well I didn't get the formal notification until two days later. And you know me, as I said before, I'm basically a cynic. I thought well, how is it that I'm the only one who doesn't know, I mean this is...usually you get a telegram, you get some kind of thing. You get a phone call, a letter, "we are happy to announce." In the case of my family, who felt...who feel as if I never tell them anything anyway, because they find out from other people or in the papers. It turns out that they had heard it on the radio in the morning, and I got the [unintelligible] by that. "You see, Dad, there he goes again, he never tells us anything...he gets the Pulitzer, and not telling us his family, we have to find it out on the radio. And there he goes again; he never tells us anything." ETZ: [laughs] Well it's a, anyway it's a wonderful honor, and it's very nice that you've received it. Is there anything else from any of these concerts that you want to talk about, or �Carnegie Hall, or... MG: I think there's little doubt that Carnegie Hall is one of these places that if you've had a relationship to it the way I have and the way you have, that there is a certain kind of nostalgia, even about things that we don't know why we're nostalgic about them. But it's just the whole atmosphere, you know? Going past the front entrance, going past the stage entrance on the other side, because in one, in a few seconds of walking by it, of going into it and so on, they're encapsulated, almost like a module of all the things that have happened, in this hall. Not only that have involved us, involved me as a composer, as a conductor, but of history you know, of the people who have come through here, the people that we've gone to see backstage here. So I think it has that, that quality to it. I think, if I may, if this is relevant, it's got nothing to do with Carnegie Hall, but one of the things I think is amusing is, I don't know what's happened with you in your career, when you've had the wrong kind of data about you. The wrong things said, of one sort or another. I've had a lot of that, I mean, completely erroneous information. But there are two books about music that I know of, in which I'm dead. So, uh . . . ETZ: Fran sent me the letter that you wrote to one gentleman that . . . MG: Right...did she send you that? ETZ: Yes, informing him that... MG: I couldn't resist that. ETZ: ...indeed you were quite alive. MG: Yeah, one was put out by, in England, and franchised here with a book publisher. And in one I died in 1982. No, in one I died in 1976. In the other I died in 1982, at least I gained a number of years on that one. ETZ: You're doing better. MG: I'm doing better, right. ETZ: It's bad enough when you see on a program, you see the birth and death dates of the other composers, and then you see your birthdate, and a big blank. That's enough of a . . . and aggravation. MG: Well, they can fill it in. It's an option to fill in the year. Now, when I first found out about the last one, which had me dead in...the first one had me dead in 1976. They said, the same year as Benjamin Britten. I said, well, when I see him, I'll tell him, you know, we went the same time, but I was a little late; I was delayed. And the other had me dead in 1982. I couldn't resist. I called the publisher here that had the franchise, and I got a very nice woman who was very embarrassed to find out about this. I said, "look, all I want to do about this is, give me the man's address." He lives somewhere outside of London. So I purposely handwrote the letter, and I said something to the effect that, I said, "Dear So-and-so," I said, "If you believe what you write, you must be as surprised to get this letter as I was to see in your book that I was dead, see." Then I went on to explain the reason that I was handwriting it was to prove the fact that I was still...I must have...I got a very charming letter back from him, very apologetic, and he has no idea how that happened. But you see... ETZ: Morton, I think we'll be seeing quite a lot more of you; I certainly look forward to it. You know something very interesting to me, sitting here talking with you this afternoon, the word adventure has come up any number of times, and it seems to me that's a really good description of your life as a composer and as a musician. It seems like it's been one big adventure, going this place or that place. MG: Yeah, I suppose so. But I think that it would have been an adventure for anybody. It certainly would have been an adventure for you to have had the performances and the recognition that you have received, the Pulitzer and so on. It is, but we can also have adventures that are not that nice...we can also have the other kind, where for one reason or another say, where you are not...you get no recognition, and you spend many years being completely unrecognized. I have great sympathy for, I think, anybody who spends a tremendous amount of blood, sweat, and tears on trying to achieve something and then perhaps never makes it, never for one reason or another. Sometimes it may be that there isn't enough...that the work itself doesn't have enough value. Or a chain of circumstances that make it very difficult for a work to get exposed, for one reason or another, or it gets the wrong exposure, or gets a bad performance, or whatever. So in that sense, I think we all have the adventure...the adventure of being alive, and certainly being alive and being able to do what you said so beautifully before, which I agree with, that moment, or the moments, when it rolls out of you, that's unexplainable. You can't really, but it's there. And I feel lucky to be able to be able to do that. The other thing is to never stop looking at the horizon. ETZ: It's been wonderful talking with you this afternoon, Morton. Thank you very much. MG: Well, I've enjoyed this, being with you too. Thank you. This has been a presentation of The Library of Congress. Visit us at www.loc.gov